


The Subtle Sound of Feathers

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Guardian Angels, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Winglock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-09-03
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 53,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3710068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson nearly lost his life in Afghanistan. Unknown to him, the only thing between him and death was a Guardian Angel by the name of Sherlock Holmes, and now that John has been invalided out of the Army and back into civilian life, he assumes his life is as good as over - until Sherlock steps into it. Sherlock brings adventure back into John's life along with a useless attraction to the other-worldly man, but there are things in the world beyond John's understanding, and having a Guardian Angel in his life will bring their focus down on him and place him in the path of danger.</p><p>Follow pixchuu221b.tumblr.com for information on updates and progress.</p><p>---Temporary hiatus as I attempt to recover from health problems compounded by life problems. There are still chapters waiting to be edited and published; this is not over yet.---</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Saviour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenLadyAnne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenLadyAnne/gifts).



Sherlock Holmes had been assured upon his death and subsequent arrival in the Heavenly Realms that the offer of being a Guardian Angel was one of the highest compliments that a human soul could receive. His death had effectively erased all memories of his former life except for his name, so he had to assume that he had done _something_ in his life worthy of honoring. He was given the choice of endless days of quietude, existing in the Heavenly Realms with the rest of the deceased souls and spending his afterlife in calm contemplation, or taking on the job of guiding and guarding humans with specific destinies. He did not know what type of person he had been on earth, but had to assume he hadn't lived a boring life; given a choice between guaranteed monotony or potential adventure, he found his choice in the afterlife quite an easy one to make.

 There was no solid way to gauge the passage of time in the Heavenly Realms. Sherlock was only confident in the fact that, since he had taken on the role of Guardian Angel, he had helped four souls successfully complete their preordained paths via lifelong Guardian Angel guidance and had been a temporary guide to six more people who only needed a gentle nudge to ensure that they headed down one of many correct paths. He had to assume, therefore, that he had been officially deceased for at least four human lifetimes and possibly closer to six human lifetimes. The human world had definitely changed dramatically with each new soul he had been assigned to, anyway.

 Well, Sherlock was confident in one more thing beyond his estimates of how long he had been dead: his current assignment was definitely his favorite, despite the fact that Guardian Angels were most definitely _not_ meant to pick favorites.

 Dr. John Watson had been assigned to Sherlock ever since the young human had skidded so radically off his predestined course in his late 20s. John was meant to save hundreds of human lives from early death, and had initially followed one of the many possible life paths towards that eventual goal. John Watson had become a doctor and been well on his way to a successful life as a GP, a career that would influence potentially thousands of lives and save many of them from early death. Then, for no apparent reason, he had chosen to enlist in the British Army during a time of war. The same day John Watson signed away his life as a doctor working only towards helping other humans, Sherlock had been called into his garrison leader's presence and assigned to the young man. He was to Guard John Watson's life and begin subtly influencing the man's path to ensure that he continued towards his destiny.

 After only a few hours of observation, Sherlock had quickly concluded that Dr. John Watson was not the type of charge that Sherlock would be able to subtly nudge in the preordained direction. While he _was_ able to ensure John Watson took a role in the British Army that would still allow him to be a healer, Sherlock was _not_ able to convince the man to take a position that would never put him in the path of combat-related danger, despite many gentle nudges and subtle whispers meant to push John Watson in just such a direction.

 For years, Sherlock was forced to watch his charge flying out from the base to pick up wounded soldiers, regularly putting himself in the line of fire. It was equal parts thrilling and distressing; the caring and gentle Dr. John Watson seemed to become a completely different person when in a combat situation, something that fascinated Sherlock endlessly, but he was often in the line of fire as he attempted to patch bleeding wounds and stabilize men on the edge of death enough that they could be moved back to the base for more intensive treatment. Watching the confident, controlled man that John Watson became in combat situations was completely absorbing to the Guardian Angel. At the same time, Sherlock knew that every time his charge stepped out of the relative safety of the base at which he was stationed, the man ran the risk of being killed and leaving his predestined path unfulfilled, leading to the deaths of hundreds of other humans who would impact thousands of other humans who would impact millions of other humans.

 After only a few months of watching John Watson working in dangerous situations, Sherlock realized that no amount of gentle nudges or subtle persuasions would sway the man's determination. So, in the hopes of convincing John Watson that he needed change his current assignment and at least choose a role in the army that did not require frequent trips into combat zones, Sherlock sought special permission from his garrison commander to be allowed to take human form and step in directly to change John Watson's current course, but he was denied and told that he should work only to keep his charge alive and continue to operate on a subtle level to persuade John back onto his preordained path. And that was how, two years after being expressly denied permission to assume human form, Sherlock ended up disobeying direct orders from his garrison leader and taking human form to save John Watson's life.

 All Guardian Angels had mild omniscience, especially where it concerned their assigned humans. Sherlock usually preferred to ignore his omniscience; he'd found that simple observation allowed him to know almost everything about his human and he only utilized his omniscience to verify what he had already reasoned out. Occasionally, though, in times of extreme danger to their human charge, a Guardian Angel's omniscience would forcefully take over, leaving Sherlock no choice but to act.

 Sherlock had spent the last hour watching John Watson riding in the helicopter high above the bleak landscape of Afghanistan on his way to retrieve yet another grievously injured soldier. John Watson watched the shadow of the helicopter passing over featureless stretches of sand and rambling outcroppings of bare rocks with a calm and disinterested expression, and Sherlock watched John Watson. While there was nothing particularly interesting in watching John Watson staring with seeming thoughtlessness out at the sandy expanse below, contemplation of his charge was something Sherlock indulged in frequently. He found comfort in the set of John's jaw and the press of John's thin lips; in the fathomless blue of John's eyes and the wrinkles that cuddled up in the outer corners of them; the sun-bleached sandiness of John's hair and the subtle shimmers of grey that had been slowly coming in over the last year. He had been keeping these private thoughts from his garrison commander, although he wasn't completely sure why. His job was to protect and guide John Watson; finding the man fascinating was surely not in direct opposition to that goal. And yet, somehow, Sherlock felt that his fascination was not something his Angelic Brothers and Sisters would find acceptable, so he kept it to himself.

 When the helicopter landed, he followed along behind John Watson as he frequently did these days, watching over the man from his incorporeal state. The awkward terrain did not bother Sherlock; he was not a physical human being. Had he been visible to any of the soldiers making their way across the rocks and sand or skirting the sparse low-growing sagebrush, they would not have failed to notice the way he moved through the tumbled boulders and tufts of dry, grey desert grasses without needing to step over or around them. They would have noticed that his feet did not exactly impact the gritty sand, making no sounds of footfalls and leaving no prints behind.

 But he was not visible to the human eye unless he put on the Seeming of a physical human body, and without the Seeming he was not constrained by the physical world, so he moved through the arid landscape without stumbling over the difficult patches and without suffering from the baking heat of the late afternoon sun. The enormous, dark-feathered wings extending out from his upper back dragged the ground behind him without disturbing even a single pebble.

 He had only a few moments to appreciate the way the bright desert sun glinted off John's hair, throwing sparks of gold into a halo around his head, before the omniscient warning exploded throughout his entire being.

  _He is going to die right now._

 Sherlock had been denied his request to assume a physical body to guide John Watson onto his appointed path, but that did not matter at that moment. It took him mere seconds to appear beside John Watson, fully clothed in the muted olive-and-sand camouflage combat dress that many of the British Army wore in the active combat zones. He had not bothered to create the Seeming of a weapon - he did not need one and would not use one to end a human life even if he had one. He broke into a run as soon as he had created the physical Seeming of the heavy tan boots that John's escorts also wore, kicking up loose stones and sand as he rushed at John. Ahead of John and his escorts, Sherlock could see the dark smudges of men appearing over a ridge, their silhouettes hazy in the heat wavering up from the sand, their weapons aimed at the cluelessly approaching group.

 "John Watson! Get down!" Sherlock shouted even as he leaped to tackle the other man.

 The shriek of bullets cutting through the air filled Sherlock's head with vicious noise as he collided hard with John Watson, driving the other man down onto the painfully sun-heated sand. The escorts were returning fire, shouting to one another in a babble of sound. John Watson was struggling beneath Sherlock, trying to buck Sherlock off at the same time that he was reaching towards the weapon that always went with him when he left the base to retrieve wounded soldiers.

 Sherlock rolled to one side, keeping his body between John and the danger of death from the men still peeking above the ridge and releasing an unrelenting hail of bullets. John Watson was on his feet and running in a low crouch after his escorts, moving towards the questionable shelter of a collection of heavy boulders some ten metres away. Sherlock mimicked his pose, running just behind him and keeping his body always between his charge and the attackers.

 The escorts were diving behind the boulders now, disappearing from view, and Sherlock heard one screaming for assistance, a radio raised to his sweating face. Sherlock felt relief rising up in him in a choking wave; he had succeeded. He had stopped the ending of John Watson's life by a surprise attack. He had done it!

 And then John was stumbling, a harsh cry tearing from his throat as he lost his footing and landed heavily on his knees. Sherlock saw the seemingly insignificant hole through the shoulder at the back of John's fatigues, a black dot where there had been a large patch of camel-colored material before. John had fallen forward, one arm squeezing against his chest as the other braced in a mix of hot sand and baking rocks. Sherlock skidded to a stop beside John, falling hard onto his own arse as he struggled with the unfamiliarity of a physical body, gravity, and momentum. 

  
"John Watson!" Sherlock's voice was rough with the stress of the situation, unfamiliar to him coming through a human chest and throat. Sherlock reached towards the other man, hand closing on the sun-heated material of John Watson's fatigues at his upper arm. Sherlock saw the growing patch of red high on John Watson's chest a moment later, saw the heavy, thick drops of blood leaking over the tanned hand John had pressed to the exit wound and dripping down John's wrist to disappear into the cuff of his fatigues as if they had never existed. And within seconds, John's entire hand was washed with red and his fatigues at the bend of his elbow had become garish with the blood running freely down John's forearm from the bullet wound he pressed his hand against so desperately.

 "Shot," John said, his voice tight with pain. "Pressure - apply pressure -"

 "Behind the boulders." Sherlock grabbed handfuls of John's fatigues and dragged the man bodily to the cover of the rocks, stopping only once they were hidden from the line of sight of the men across the stretch of sand leading to the ridge. Sherlock fell to his knees, pebbles digging into them unpleasantly as sand worked its way into his boots in a prickling, heated wave as he dragged himself closer to John Watson, trying to prop the prone man up a bit onto his bent thighs. Blood was darkening the back of John Watson's fatigues now, too; everywhere, it was everywhere and Sherlock did not know how to stop it from rushing out of his human charge's body. John's tan face was rapidly paling, his lips trembling as his wide, dark blue eyes searched Sherlock's face frantically.

 "Who are you?" John asked.

 "How do I stop the bleeding?" Sherlock demanded, pressing his own larger and much paler hand over John's in a clumsy attempt to slow the flow. The blood did not respect his pressing hand any more than it had John's, pouring out over their joined fingers. Within seconds, Sherlock's hand was as gore-covered as John Watson's.

 "Pressure. Call for help." John Watson's thin lips were still trembling rapidly, his eyes huge as he they swept back and forth across Sherlock's face.

 "Yes, yes, I am. They are. What else can we do? You are losing too much blood. You will die, John Watson. You are a doctor - _what do I do?_ " Sherlock's panic made his voice rough and his words clipped, but John Watson didn't seem to notice. One corner of his mouth quirked faintly, causing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes to deepen.

 "Beautiful," John whispered, bringing his free hand up to brush his fingertips lightly across the edge of Sherlock's jaw. "God... amazing." John's hand dropped down to the ground again as his face twisted in pain, shock ineffective at completely numbing him from the wound ripped through his body. John Watson's mouth worked as he struggled to get words out, his eyes drifting away from Sherlock to stare into the blinding brightness of the cloudless sky. His words, when he was finally able to force them out of his trembling lips, were nearly a whisper. "Please, God, let me live."

 And Sherlock's jaw tightened as he made up his mind to break another law. Mycroft was _not_ going to be pleased.

 It took only a very small amount of angelic power to mend the wound. He did not heal it; there would be no way to explain the blood loss if he did. Instead, he merely took it from 'mortal' to 'extremely dangerous.' The gushing blood slowed even as John's hand slid from Sherlock's face, the other man slipping into unconsciousness as shock tried to protect his body from the trauma of the injury and blood loss.

 John's color was not improving, but it was not worsening either. His breathing was stertorous, but he _was_ still breathing. He was not likely to bleed to death in the next few minutes, and Sherlock settled in beneath John Watson's head and shoulders to wait. One of John Watson's escorts was still on the radio, relaying their position and situation to whomever was coming to rescue their group, the other two returning the fire of the attackers. Sherlock twisted his head slightly, trying to pick up the words on the radio over the deafening rattle of bullets. Finally, he was able to pick out the important words he needed to hear: 'thirty minutes.' Help was on its way.

 Sherlock was loathe to leave John Watson's side, but he had already broken too many laws to continue delaying his inevitable punishment. Shuffling slightly in the sand and rocks, he lowered John Watson's upper body down to the ground. He glanced around to be sure no one was looking directly at him and then dropped his Seeming. Instantly, John Watson's blood vanished from his hands and the oppressive heat of the Afghanistan desert stopped beating down on him. The tickle of sweat that had been sliding down his back was gone, as was the painful press of rocks into his knees where he had knelt beside John Watson's prone form. He rose to his feet as the escort on the radio finally glanced around, taking in their small group now that he was assured that help was coming.

 "Shit!" the man shouted, returning his weapon to his back as he scrambled over to John. "The doctor's been hit!"

 And then Sherlock was standing in front of Mycroft, his garrison commander, the taller angel's heavy glower telling Sherlock exactly how much trouble he was going to be in.

 Sherlock had never quite gotten used to travel in the Heavenly Realms. The ability to move instantly from one place to another merely by thinking it always left him feeling a little like he was cheating. And when someone _else_ moved him, it was distinctly disconcerting, especially when the one who had moved him was his direct commander and was now looking at him as if Sherlock's very reality was a great burden on Mycroft's daily existence.

 Mycroft had always been a fan of theatrics, Sherlock thought. The man had retained the human habit of having an office for meetings, and that was to where Sherlock had been moved. The walls were covered in a dark green patterned wallpaper that seemed to press in on Sherlock, although it was hard to see it behind the large, over-stuffed bookcases and framed portraits of miscellaneous grim-faced patricians. All the furniture was heavy walnut pieces, the chairs before Mycroft's desk upholstered with hunter green velvet so ridiculously plush that they seemed to disapprove of the idea of anyone sitting on them. The desk Mycroft sat behind was enormous and entirely for show; Mycroft did no real paperwork in his role as garrison commander, but he did very much enjoy all the trappings of a bureaucrat, right down to the pinstriped grey suit that he appeared to be wearing, despite the fact that there was no way he could have been wearing a suit with the huge, heavily-feathered, pale gold wings extending out from his upper back. But physics as they applied in the human world did not truly hold sway in the Heavenly Realms and Mycroft was able to appear to be wearing a bespoke suit and to be leaning into an oversized leather-upholstered desk chair without affecting his wings. And Sherlock knew that Mycroft's suit was only a Seeming of a suit, not an actual physical collection of clothing. If Mycroft had stopped believing in the Seeming, it would have faded instantly away to leave the garrison commander looking like the rest of the Guardian Angels: completely nude and utterly sexless.

 "He was going to be killed," Sherlock said immediately, speaking before Mycroft had even had a chance to open his mouth. "I acted to prevent that."

 "You disobeyed direct orders to _not_ assume human form." Mycroft's tone was clipped and he clasped his hands together on top of the ink blotter resting on the desk's glossy top, leaning forward slightly to pin Sherlock with a disapproving glare. "If this had been the first time you had done so for one of your charges, I could perhaps pull some strings and get your punishment waived. But, Sherlock, you are _not_ above the laws of the Guardian Angels, no matter what you may think."

  
"Is it not our goal to lead our human charges to their predestined life goals?" Sherlock pressed, stepping around one of the repulsive chairs before Mycroft's desk to lean towards his commander, resting his fingertips on the varnished wood as he stared hard at the older angel.

 "Of course, it is -" Mycroft began.

 "Then I acted in line with that goal," Sherlock said, cutting the other man off, lifting one hand in a dismissive wave. Mycroft's lips thinned as he glared at Sherlock for several long, silent seconds.

 "You took a physical Seeming and then used a Healing to repair the injuries your charge sustained in the line of duty - a role he _chose_ , if I might remind you. Because of your poor choices, you are to be removed from your guardianship of Dr. John Hamish Watson, effective immediately."

 The horror that shook through Sherlock left him unable to speak for a moment as he reeled back from Mycroft. His hands clenched at his sides as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "I will not relinquish my -"

 "It's already done." Mycroft spread his hands in front of him, indicating how helpless they both were to change things. "And you are on a temporary probation. You are barred from visiting the Earth and you will receive no new charge for some time while you contemplate how best to fulfill your role as Guardian Angel without breaking the laws tied to that role."

 "Who will be guarding John Watson?" Sherlock asked, his voice tight.

 "He is being assigned to Victor Trevor for the next six months of Dr. John Watson's life," Mycroft said, pretending to look through a file that had appeared at his elbow on the desk as soon as he reached for it. "Throughout his time as a Guardian Angel, Victor has managed over a hundred guidees when the human's previously assigned Angel had to be taken from their Guardianship; he will be well equipped to guide Dr. John Watson."

 Sherlock was familiar with Victor. He would even go so far as to say that they had become friends. They often spent time in one another's company when they were both between human charges, and it helped mitigate the unending boredom of the Heavenly Realms somewhat. He also knew that Victor had never had a human assigned for him to guide and guard from birth to death. Victor was used as a stop-gap when a human needed a temporary guide. He was perfectly capable of watching over John for six months, but who would take over as John Watson's Guardian Angel after that?

 Sherlock was opening his mouth to ask when Mycroft closed the file with a snap and shoved it to one side of the desk, raising his eyes back to Sherlock as he clasped his hands together on the ink blotter once more. After surveying Sherlock for a moment, a sympathetic expression crossed his face. "If it is any comfort, Sherlock, you saved Dr. John Watson's life today. If it were only up to _me_ , I would leave you as his Guardian Angel... but, the higher Council of Guardian Angels has decided that law breakers _must_ be punished, even when they do more good than harm in their breaking of our laws."

 And with that, Sherlock vanished from Mycroft's office and reappeared on an ivory-colored Contemplation Bench in one of the multitude of Heavenly Pleasure Gardens. There was no one else around; he was completely alone. In the safety of solitude, Sherlock was able to curl in on himself as the pain of loss swept over him. His John Watson was gone.

 


	2. The Slow Descent

John startled awake, momentarily confused as his eyes swept the darkened bedsit in an effort to locate the familiar faces that he'd just been looking at. After only a moment, he slumped back into his bed, understanding washing over him: he'd been dreaming again. Ever since being wounded and subsequently invalided home from Afghanistan, his sleep had been broken every night by one of two dreams. This night, the dream had been a mishmash of images of Army life, everything overlaid with a sense of excitement and belonging. He'd snapped awake, as he always did, at the penultimate moment: the firefight that had led to him being invalided out of the Army. In the darkness and privacy of his flat, sorrow and disappointment washed over him in a choking wave as the pointlessness of civilian life swelled inside his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs in a miserable wheeze.

 He had been out of the Army for almost six months. In the first few weeks after his injury, it had looked likely that he would be returning to active duty; after all, a fairly clean through-and-through shoulder wound would not prevent him from completing his duties as a doctor to other more grievously injured soldiers. Men and women capable of stopping soldiers from bleeding to death were a precious commodity in war, and John's own shoulder wound didn't severely restrict his range of motion and certainly not enough to prevent him slapping some duct tape and hope onto a severed artery or over the stump of a limb. It had looked like he would only need time to heal and physical therapy to ensure as full a range of motion as possible before he would be returning to his previous base.

 John was still in hospital recovering from the injury and precipitous blood loss when he overheard his own doctor speaking to a nurse in the hall outside his room. John had only caught the words 'Watson's likely being invalided out,' but it was enough. Within a day, the physical therapist who'd been slowly helping him strengthen his arm and shoulder after the bullet had torn through muscle and ligament and had chipped bone noticed that John was beginning to limp on his right leg despite the fact that it had not been injured during the firefight.

 Repeated tests had shown that there was nothing physically wrong with his leg; by all rights, it was as sound as it had ever been. And yet, John's limp grew worse as the days went on, and on top of everything else, he began noticing a faint tremor in his left hand that popped up at the oddest times but almost never when his shoulder was fatigued and aching. It was obvious even to John that the tremor was not related to his healing bullet wound, and he tried to hide it from everyone, knowing that it would be the final piece of evidence necessary to declare him unfit for duty.                         

But discovery was inevitable. Within a week, his physical therapist noticed the tremor in his hand and it was all over. His doctor had been told about the limp already. Once the tremor was brought to her attention, she came to John the next day with a sympathetic expression and had begun talking about him returning to a civilian life.

 And now, here he was: a 37-year-old invalided Army doctor with a limp and an intermittent tremor in his hand. He had no real prospects for his future, and each time he woke up alone in his small, miserable bedsit, he wondered how much he truly _wanted_ to see his future.

 He knew he was depressed; he was a doctor, for God's sake. He would have had to have been extremely unobservant to not see the signs of it in himself. The general malaise was not enough on its own, but the decreased appetite and the increase in thoughts that went along the lines of 'what's the point?' had been growing exponentially over the last two months.

 John lay in his narrow bed and did not fight the tears. What _was_ the point? Dimly, he was glad that the dream hadn't been the really bad one that occasionally dragged him from sleep: the beautiful soldier with the dark, wind-ruffled curls who had saved John from going down in a rain of bullets and who had put pressure on his wound until help arrived. He had no idea who the young man had been. He hadn't been one of John's escorts and he hadn't been stationed with any of the companies in the area around where John had been injured. John had spent months asking around under the guise of wanting to thank the man in an attempt to find _someone_ who knew the young man's name. No one had known anything.

 John always woke from _that_ dream with not only a feeling of crushing disappointment due to missed opportunities but also a raging hard-on caused by the fact that his dreams of the unknown soldier were _never_ about the soldier saving his life and _always_ about the soldier touching him, kissing him, tasting the crease where his thigh met his groin. It was almost a relief to snap awake and not be achingly hard; trying to get himself off when he felt flattened by misery was not something he wanted to face any more than absolutely necessary.

 Eventually, he dried his face roughly on the sleeve of the thermal undershirt he had slept in and pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed, his bare feet resting on the roughness of tan Berber carpet. A single glance confirmed his suspicions: it was still dark outside. By the quality of the darkness, John knew it would be hours before the sun would rise, and he found he simply did not have the drive to rise from the edge of the bed once he had settled there. He didn't have any reason to try and get back to sleep, either, as he didn't have anywhere he had to be that day. He clasped his hands between his knees, body stiff as he stared with unfocused eyes across the claustrophobic room.

 Ella Thompson, his therapist, had been urging him to reintegrate with society for four months and John had finally acquiesced in the last couple of weeks, taking a part-time job with St. Bartholomew's Hospital in the pathology department. John was basically a glorified lab tech, and the work was far, far below his skill set. However, it got him out in public twice a week and the meager pay augmented his army pension enough for him to be able to afford going out for a few pints on a Friday night... not that he had.

 If John was completely honest with himself, his life had been complete and utter shite ever since he'd been sent back home. Every morning, he woke up long before his alarm went off. Every day, he struggled with his own melancholy as he wandered around his tiny bedsit, attempting to write something in the blog his therapist had urged him to keep, or tried to get himself out in public to 'reintegrate with life as a civilian,' hoping to end his evening in some way _other_ than the way it always ended: alone in his bedsit staring into one of the drawers of his desk at the service pistol he'd illegally smuggled out when he'd been invalided home.

 He was surprised that no one had missed the Browning, but then again, they'd been so eager to see him back into a 'nice, normal civilian life' that they probably would've let him make off with a full kit as long as he'd been able to hide it under his jacket. He often felt he had more need of weapons now in his civilian existence than he ever had when he was flying out to remote war zones to bring back injured soldiers. When he'd been active duty, he'd needed guns to protect himself from the enemy combatants. Now, he needed a gun to remind himself that if he simply couldn't force himself through another day, he had options.

 John suspected he was truly depressed and not just in a temporary slump. People who were mentally stable didn't tend to spend long moments staring thoughtfully at an illegal handgun that they kept tucked inside their desk drawer 'just in case.'

 He supposed depression was something he should mention to the therapist he saw every week, but he had always found it incredibly difficult to talk about his emotions. It was easier to pretend he was all right and keep pushing forward. He would go to his therapy appointments because they were strongly recommended for the first few months when reintegrating into a civilian life, and once the recommended commitments to therapy were done, he would just keep pushing forward on his own.

 And when the day came that he couldn't push forward anymore? Well, he'd planned for that eventuality, too.

 Two days later, John was making his heavy, limping way back from an unproductive appointment with Ella, trudging along a walking path winding through the beautiful early spring day in Russell Square Park, when he heard someone calling his name. He didn't want to talk to anyone, least of all someone who knew his name. Everyone in London who would know his name would be someone he had known before he left for Afghanistan and would not be someone who would understand the John Watson that he was now.

 But the person calling him was insistent and John had to choose between being rude or being uncomfortable; it was an easy choice. He turned around grudgingly, recognizing the friendly, round face of Mike Stamford. They'd known each other in their uni days and had been quite friendly with one another when they were young. John waited patiently as Mike stood from the park bench he'd been sitting on and rushed towards John, his broad face lighting up with an excited smile.

  
"Stamford! Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together," Mike said, thrusting one hand towards John with all the exuberance of a puppy seeing a favorite friend.

 "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." John spoke quickly, taking the offered hand and shaking it briefly. "Hello, hi."

 John had not seen the tall man standing behind Mike, gently nudging him up from the park bench and impelling him forward and towards John with whispered suggestions, had not heard the man murmuring as Mike rushed away, "Yes, this will help him back onto his path."

 If John _had_ been able to see the man, though, he probably would have had something to say: after all, it wasn't every day you saw someone in Russell Square Park sporting enormous white bird's wings that were nearly as tall as they were.

 Victor heaved a relieved sigh as Mike Stamford and John Watson began conversing. He hadn't had an assignment this difficult in several decades. He typically stepped in when Guardian Angels could no longer take care of their charges, so while it was not unusual for him to be assigned to a human with very short notice, this was the first case he'd been given due to the Guardian Angel overstepping their bounds and being torn away from their human with such speed. The more Victor followed John Watson around, though, the more sympathy he had for Sherlock. He had almost stepped into human form multiple times in the last six months to prevent John Watson from going completely off his path; it was unusual for humans with a destiny to be as depressed as John Watson was. Victor suspected the emotional malaise was due to John's inability to fulfill his own predestined path, but the human had resisted all of Victor's subtle urgings to go in a direction that would lead him to a satisfying conclusion of his life's fate. It was a daily struggle for Victor not to take the Seeming of a human and shake a little sense into John Watson. Victor had to admit to himself that it was pure luck that he had not yet lost the guardianship of John Watson through either his own reassignment due to breaking the laws or through John Watson's death.

 Victor followed after the two human men as they made their way out of Russell Square Park, Mike Stamford talking enthusiastically about the Criterion Coffee and Tea Shop as he led Victor's limping charge along the paved path, neither man aware of the angel keeping pace just behind them. With John safely occupied by another human being, Victor was able to let his mind wander for a moment.

 When he was completely alone, Victor could admit to himself that he envied the Guardian Angels who were given a charge for the entirety of a human life. As much as he enjoyed the esteem of his Angelic Brethren and Sistren for being one of the few Guardian Angels dependable enough to step in for short stretches with human charges, Victor also resented the strictures it placed on him. He was considered too valuable to be tied to a single human for 60 to 80 years. If one of the humans who had a predestined path which the Guardian Angels had to safeguard needed to be reassigned a new guard and guide, there were always several months or even years where a temporary Guardian Angel was needed to ensure the human didn't suddenly stray wildly off their path while the Council of Guardian Angels deliberated over a new permanent Guardian Angel. As rare as it was to have an Angel reassigned away from their human charge, the Council felt Victor and the handful of Guardian Angels like him were too valuable for permanent assignment.

 There was also the issue of connecting to human charges. Most Guardian Angels formed a bond of sorts to their human charges. The bond helped the Angel guide their human. While it wasn't a necessity, it did greatly increase an Angel's ability to see the various possible paths that could lead their charge to the eventual completion of their destiny. It could also be problematic, forming so strongly as to cause the Guardian Angel to endure several decades of a sort of slow and heavy mourning once their charge passed to the Heavenly Realms and the bond dissolved.

 Victor had never experienced that sort of connection to a human charge. It was part of what made him ideal to step in when a temporary Guardian Angel was needed. He envied the Guardian Angels who were able to form bonds with their charges; he had been guiding human souls for several centuries and had never felt even the faintest flutter of the connection. He looked through the coffee shop's large glass front window, watching as John Watson took his compressed paper coffee cup from the young woman behind the counter. Victor always hoped to form a bond with each new temporary human charge; John Watson was such a difficult case, perhaps a bond would form this time to help him guide the man. Wouldn't that be in keeping with the Divine's plan of Guardian Angels?

 Victor's wings stretched wide and trembling, occluding the entire front of the coffee shop with white feathers as a thrill of excitement went through him. He hoped with every one of his temporary assignments that the bond between Guardian Angel and human charge would form, and he was always disappointed. John Watson, though, was the hardest case he'd ever taken on before. Perhaps this would finally be what caused a bond to form? He _had_ to bond eventually, didn't he? If he didn't, wasn't that proof that he was in some way flawed, that he had never been intended to be a Guardian Angel and that the offer several hundred years ago had been a mistake by the Divine? That opened a whole new can of worms: admitting that the Divine could make mistakes was anathema to the Guardian Angels. It negated their entire existence, after all. Victor shook the thought away, giving his wings a single flap to fully banish the ridiculous notion that he had been mistakenly offered the position of guard and guide to humans on Earth.

 John Watson and Mike Stamford were on the move again, stepping out of the Criterion Coffee and Tea Shop. Victor refolded his wings, giving the feathers a quick ruffle to help settle them, trying to shake off his doldrums. It wouldn't do, concentrating on his own sorrows and jealousies when he had a human in need of guiding, especially a human like John Watson who always seemed on the verge of an early death and the dissolution of his predestined path.

 Victor had never before regretted taking on a temporary charge, but he was beginning to wonder about his assignment to John Watson. How on earth was he supposed to keep this man alive until a suitable Guardian Angel could be found unless a bond between them formed? Was this an impossible task?

 No matter his personal feelings on the matter, Victor _did_ have a task. He fell into step a bit behind the two men, following them as they made their way back to Russell Square Park with coffees in their hands, listening to the awkward conversation as it stuttered and jerked between them. It was only a matter of time; he would bond with John Watson. There could be no doubt within him.

\- - - - -

John had never been a fan of small talk, and he was finding the conversation with Mike almost intolerable. His therapist had encouraged him to get back in contact with friends he'd known before his military career, obviously feeling that having a connection to other people would help John lift out of the depression that he still would not mention to her but which had to be obvious even to an untrained person after only a few hours of conversation. Ella's encouragement to reform bonds sounded good in theory. Unfortunately, John was finding the exact opposite to be true; sitting on a park bench and chatting with Mike was making John feel worse than ever.

"Are you still at Bart's, then?" John asked during a lull in the conversation.

"Teaching now," Mike confirmed with a chuckle. "Bright young things, like we used to be; God, I hate them!"

They both laughed at Mike's joke, John awkwardly and unused to making that particular sound now. There was another pause, John unwilling to mention his own part-time job in the Bart's morgue, and Mike rushed to fill it as he'd been doing for the last half hour.

"What about you? Just staying in town until you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension," John confirmed.

"Ah, and you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."  
  
"Yeah, I'm not the John Watson -" John cut himself off; he could hear the bitterness in his own voice and knew that Mike couldn't possibly miss it. He could feel his left hand trying to start trembling around the paper coffee cup and he switched it to his right hand, reflexively clenching and unclenching his left hand in an attempt to stop the tremor. He was going to need to excuse himself from this conversation quickly before he offended even affable Mike.

 "Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked, and John snorted out a disdainful laugh.

 "Yeah, like _that's_ going to happen!"

 Harriet, his older sister, had called on him the day after he returned to London. She'd been completely drunk, barely able to keep her feet as she wandered aimlessly around his tiny bedsit, rambling about their childhood before confessing that her marriage with the lovely and patient Clara had fallen apart. She blamed it on their family and especially John, the brother who had 'never been there for her.'

 John hadn't known that Harry and Clara's marriage was in trouble, although it was hardly surprising; Harry had been on the path to alcoholism before he'd left for the Army and it didn't look as though the years he'd been away had helped her get above her demons. However, John knew that _he_ was not one of those demons and would not take her blame. He'd told Harry in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested in being the whipping boy for problems she had caused on her own and that he had no desire to see her again until she was able to straighten herself out.

 She'd seemed stunned by his words and had stopped her ranting. After a moment's hesitation, she'd left her mobile phone for him, saying she was getting a new one anyway and he might as well have a way of getting in touch if he changed his mind. John had only kept the phone because Harry had stumbled out of the bedsit and hailed a cab before John was able to limp his way down to the street and catch her. He hadn't spoken to her since and didn't intend to phone her and ask for help now.

 Mike looked even more uncomfortable than he had a moment before, obviously realizing he'd bumbled into an emotional briar patch with his suggestion. Suddenly, though, his expression brightened.

 "Actually, I have an idea that might help you. I know an older widow looking to rent out the flat above hers. She's willing to let it go for extremely cheap, she said, as long as it's a personal recommendation. You'd have to find a flatmate eventually, but it could work. Mrs. Hudson would probably give you a couple of months at a deeply discounted rate to give you a chance to search for someone to help with the costs."

 John hesitated, wanting to dismiss the idea out-of-hand. He had to admit, though, that staying in the dismal, tiny bedsit wasn't improving his mood at all. Perhaps if he was in a better flat, he could turn a corner and start reintegrating with society. The only other option seemed to be staying in the same miserable existence he'd been in for the last two months, a path that seemed destined to end abruptly with a bullet in his brain.

 "All right," John said. "What are the details?"

 Mike was almost quivering with excitement as he pulled his mobile from a pocket. "Her name is Mrs. Hudson and the address is 221 Baker Street. I'll arrange a tour for you later this week. What's your number so I can phone you once I've talked to her?"

 John rattled off his number, hoping that he wasn't making a massive mistake. Who would want _him_ for a flatmate? Hopeless emptiness washed over John in a chilling, stifling wave and he wondered absently if he'd even be alive long enough to look for a flatmate.


	3. A Sudden Necessity

Sherlock was losing his mind. For the first time since he had ascended to the Heavenly Realms, he was unbelievably, unceasingly bored. With no human charge to occupy his time and his thoughts, he was left with nothing but peace and quiet and solitude. It was completely, utterly _hateful_.

 The solitude was by choice; he had no desire to be around any of his Guardian Angel brothers or sisters or any of the other ascended human souls that populated his portion of the Heavenly Realms. They were nearly as boring as sitting in one of the Heavenly Pleasure Gardens. But the peace and quiet were about to make him attempt to revisit the rumored actions of Lucifer several millennia before... not that he had even a suggestion of other Angels unhappy with the way things were going who might join him in an attempted overthrow of the Heavenly Realms. Also, Lucifer hadn't been a Guardian Angel; he'd been one of the proper nephilim, created in the Heavenly Realms and intended for a purpose completely different from the ones ascended human souls could aspire to. Still, if the unceasing peace went on much longer, Sherlock felt sure he'd give anarchy and overthrow a try if only to end the monotony.

 The only thing that broke up the interminable boredom were the bouts of missing John Watson, and they were not any more enjoyable than the desperate tedium of being in the Heavenly Realms with nothing to occupy his mind. Sherlock had never before experienced the dissolution of a bond with one of his human charges that left him feeling so soul-sick. He'd gone through the typical periods of near-mourning when one of his charges had left their human life behind, but it had never stretched on and _on_ like this before. Sherlock had nothing with which to compare this new misery and no way of knowing how much longer it would continue. Every moment that he was not railing against the unceasing boredom of the Heavenly Realms was spent thinking of John Watson and remembering small things like the crinkle at the corner of his eyes or the way his laugh always seemed to startle out of him or the way his short fingers could move so delicately when he was working to save another human life.

 There were times when Sherlock felt sure that the bond had not fully dissolved, as it certainly should have done by now. He had thought before to bring it up to Mycroft; as his garrison commander, it would be Mycroft's duty to determine why John Watson's previous Guardian Angel was still tied to him, if that were the case. But Sherlock suspected that Mycroft would have little sympathy for him even if he _were_ still tied to John Watson; Mycroft took pride in divorcing himself from emotion and often recommended the same to the Guardian Angels in his garrison. Sherlock's inability to completely sublimate his emotional responses to his charges had been a point of contention between the two many times in the past.

 Sherlock was pacing small, discontent circles through a field of riotous and ridiculously beautiful wildflowers. He'd been assured before that the wildflowers populating the field were the most physically perfect specimens from each continent on earth, but he had very little interest in them or the supposed beauty and comfort they might offer to human souls newly arrived in the Heavenly Realms. The field was a place to pace and nothing more. He could have chosen any of the Pleasure Gardens or other Natural Wonder Areas in the Heavenly Realms; this had just been where he ended up. His pacing was disturbing no one, not even the flowers: they sprang up immediately as soon as he stepped off of them, not a single petal ruffled by being trampled under his bare foot.

 Due to the Council of Guardian Angels barring him from visiting earth, he was unsure how much time had passed. There was no way to mark the passage of time in the Heavenly Realms, and Sherlock frequently felt he might go mad waiting for his sentence to be up. He wanted very much to check in on John Watson; was he doing well under Victor's guardianship? Was he back on his predestined path yet? Had Victor been able to do what Sherlock had not and use the subtle nudging most Guardian Angels relied on to push John Watson back towards his fate?

 That was the exact moment Sherlock popped into Mycroft's office. He froze in startled confusion for a moment, caught in midstride. Sherlock lowered his raised foot, taking in the oppressive wood decor, the uncomfortable silence pressing down on him, Mycroft's scowling expression as he sat behind his desk, and the other Guardian Angel sitting in one of the repellant wingback chairs that faced Mycroft's desk. The Angel's short blond curls and the tops of two alabaster wings stuck up over the back of the chair, giving Sherlock a clue as to who the Guardian Angel visiting with the garrison commander might be.

 "What is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock did not bother hiding the annoyance in his voice and he clasped his hands behind his low back, refusing to give an inch in the face of the one who had made things so unpleasant for him lately.

 "Sit down, Sherlock." Mycroft inclined his patriarchal head towards the other chair waiting in front of the large desk, his expression full of the expectation of the order being instantly obeyed. Sherlock crossed his arms and drew his heavy wings tightly against his back.

 "I'd rather stand."

 Mycroft's mouth thinned and his clasped hands tightened on the ink blotter on top of the ornately carved desk. When he spoke next, his words were very sharply clipped. "You will sit because this conversation may take awhile and because if you do _not_ sit, I will dismiss you at once and you will hear nothing of Dr. John Watson."  

 Sherlock sat, assuming a posture of disinterest by lounging against one of the slick, polished wooden arms of the chair. He tossed one quick glance to his left to confirm his suspicions: the Guardian Angel in the chair next to his was Victor Trevor. Victor's expression was tight, but there were no other cues to the Angel's emotional state. Sherlock pressed his lips together; he did not like going into situations with no idea of what would follow, but neither Mycroft nor Victor were giving him any clues. Fine, then, he'd just plow forward.

 "What of John Watson?" Sherlock demanded, turning his attention back to Mycroft.

 "Victor has had charge over him for the six months of your sabbatical -"

 "My discharge from Guardian work," Sherlock corrected, and Mycroft's face tightened.

 "As you will. Victor has acted as the Guardian Angel to Dr. John Watson during that time and has come to me to report that the termination of you as his Guardian Angel may have been... premature. He reports that, despite his years of experience as a Guardian, he has struggled to influence Dr. John Watson's path through the usual courses available to a Guardian Angel and has said that he, in fact, believes that his charge is in danger of premature death unless drastic measures are taken."

 "Premature - _suicide?_ John Watson is in danger of committing suicide?" Sherlock planted his hands on the arms of the chair, shoving himself forward. His wings spread slightly, the long primary feathers at the edges pressing against the arms of the chair and trembling faintly as panic and fear rushed through Sherlock.

 "Stop interrupting!" Mycroft snapped and Sherlock shut his mouth at once, quelling his desire to answer back. Normally, he enjoyed the verbal riposte he and Mycroft frequently engaged in, but John Watson was too important. If Mycroft wanted his silence, silence he would have. Sherlock could not make himself sit back in an assumed posture of relaxation, though. His hands remained clenched at the ends of the chair's arms, his wings slightly extended with his desire to go to John Watson instantly. He heard the slight huff from Victor and glanced over, taking in the expression on Victor's face. Unsurprisingly, the other Guardian Angel looked disapproving, his eyes slightly narrowed as he watched Sherlock's emotional reaction to the news. Undoubtedly, Victor was judging Sherlock just as harshly as Mycroft, but Sherlock didn't care and could not make himself waste any more of his attention on Victor's disapproval. John Watson was in danger; that was all that mattered at present.

 Mycroft sighed, taking in Sherlock's position at the edge of the chair, the younger Guardian Angel looking as if he were ready to spring away at the slightest word. "Sherlock, you are a human soul given the powers and duties of a Guardian Angel. If you cannot learn to control your emotional responses, you will come to grief. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

 Sherlock gave a quick, noncommittal jerk of his head, tossing his slightly-too-long curls. "Get to the point, Mycroft."

 "Dr. John Watson is, as you said, in danger of committing suicide. Victor feels that it is unlikely that a Guardian Angel could turn him from this catastrophic path without taking human form. I have consulted with the Council of Guardian Angels and we all feel that due to the fact that your dismissal was premature, it would be right to return you once more to your role as Dr. John Watson's primary Guardian Angel with Victor as your supervisor. You will report to Victor weekly and Victor will report to me. Should you have need of assistance with Dr. John Watson while you are stationed with him, you can call either Victor or me to your side at a moment's notice."

 "Stationed with him?" The trembling in Sherlock's wings was increasing as hope and excitement flared through his chest, choking off his next breath. His knuckles had gone white with the strength of their clench on the slick wooden arms of the wingback chair.

 "You will be permitted to assume a human Seeming until such a time as Dr. John Watson is firmly back on his path to his intended life."

 Sherlock could not stop the huff of air that escaped him. He went numb with the surprise of Mycroft's words, his wings pulling in tightly against his back as he slumped to one side again, leaning heavily on one elbow braced on top of the uncomfortable arm of the armchair. He had been given permission to assume human form for an unspecified amount of time. He would be able to go to earth and walk beside John Watson. He would _be with_ John Watson not as an invisible guardian but as a physical person.

 Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, trying to find the control within himself necessary to avoid making a scene in Mycroft's office. He heard a softly indrawn breath from beside him and opened his eyes, taking in the newer, much more sympathetic expression on Victor's face.

 "I feel it is necessary for me to warn you that Dr. John Watson has not had an easy recovery after being wounded in Afghanistan." Victor's voice was soft, the gentle tone obviously an attempt to soften the bad news he was delivering to Sherlock. "The last six months have been very hard on him and he is not the same man who was under your guidance before. I am not sure that having an Angel on earth at his side will stop him from taking his own life." Victor's deep set eyes were searching Sherlock's face in minute detail, the expression on his long face very serious. Victor's eyebrows drew down slightly as he took in the look on Sherlock's face, obviously not happy about how seriously Sherlock was taking the warnings.

 Mycroft spoke before Victor could say any more, though, drawing Sherlock's eyes to where he waited behind his desk. As serious as Victor's expression had been, Mycroft's left absolutely no doubt in Sherlock's mind that they were sending him into a very precarious situation. When Mycroft spoke, it confirmed Sherlock's suspicion. "It may be that Dr. John Watson's destiny will be unfulfilled. You must be prepared for that."

 Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. He had not stopped to think of what it would mean for him as John's assigned Guardian Angel if the man committed suicide and abandoned his path. All the potential of an abandoned destiny would collapse on Sherlock. Guardian Angels had been destroyed by such a thing, their souls left irrevocably damaged. They hadn't been fit for Guardian Angel work anymore. They hadn't been fit for much of anything but sitting silently in their chosen spot of the Heavenly Realms and staring into nothingness.

 But the only way to protect himself from such a fate was to refuse to take on the role as John's Guardian Angel. That would never happen.

 "I will risk it," Sherlock said, sitting up straight and meeting Mycroft's eyes. "When do I leave?"

 "In a moment." Mycroft raised one quelling hand. "As I was saying earlier, should you have need of anything, you can call on either Victor or me. As you know, the Seeming of a human body does not make you human; you will have no need for food or sleep, but your physical form _can_ take injury, so avoid doing anything risky. You are there as a Guardian Angel, so do not forget your role in the rush of humanity. The most important thing is Dr. John Watson following his pre-determined path. You _must_ see that he is set back on it and that the hundreds of lives he is meant to save _will be_ saved."

 "Of course, Mycroft. I _know_ all of that." Sherlock lifted one impatient hand to wave it in sharp dismissal of his garrison commander's words. "When do I leave?"

 Mycroft shared a worried glance with Victor that Sherlock did not miss; he was young and impetuous compared to the two of them, he knew. But, at the moment, it did not matter. The only thing that mattered was returning to John Watson.

 "Now," Mycroft said, and Sherlock blinked in surprise. When his eyes opened, he was no longer in Mycroft's oppressively decorated office. Instead, he stood in a sparsely furnished and dimly lit room. He was tucked into a corner next to a  dining room table, his wings pressing against the off-white walls and his feet resting on tan Berber carpet.

 Against one wall, a small writing desk was pushed flush and positioned so that the heat of the fireplace just beyond it would reach the person seated at it easily. On top of the desk was a laptop, the screen open and showing a page which had the words "The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson" at the top and nothing else. There was a bed across from the desk, the space between the two slightly less than two metres. One of the chairs from the table had been pushed up next to the bed as a make-shift side table and the bed itself was neatly made with hospital corners. Sitting at the foot of the bed was John Watson. He was dressed in an off-white thermal shirt, dark pyjama pants, and had heavy socks on his feet, either getting ready to go to bed or getting up from sleep; it was impossible to come to a conclusion with how little information was immediately available. John's head was bowed and his hands were resting in his lap, his shoulders hunched forward in either weariness or sorrow. But it was John Watson; he was right there, nearly close enough to touch. Sherlock's smile had barely begun to lift the corners of his mouth when John raised one hand from his lap, bringing a gun up to his temple.

 Sherlock flung himself forward, dropping into his physical Seeming as he reached towards John, shouting, "John Watson, stop!"

 The explosion of sound and the combined reek of cordite and blood overwhelmed Sherlock, washing over him in a sickening wave that twisted his stomach, and he recoiled from the sight of John's body thrown back on the white bedspread, John's face utterly still as red spread slowly outward across the precise whiteness of the bed.

 " _Mycroft!_ " Sherlock screamed, falling heavily to his knees beside John's bed, feeling a mild twist of surprise at the brief whisper of pain that spiked from his knees impacting with the floor. Sherlock leaned out towards John Watson and then hesitated. Finally, he rested his fingertips on the edge of the mattress, staring in horror at the man where he lay unmoving on the bed that he had made with precise hospital corners. He did not dare touch John Watson; Sherlock wanted nothing in that moment so much as to heal the grievously injured man, and he knew that he would not be able to stop himself if he laid even a fingertip against John's skin. While he did have permission to assume the Seeming of a human, the Council of Guardian Angels had _not_ given permission for a healing. He could _not_ risk losing his assignment to John Watson if there was any chance that the man might yet be saved from this attempt on his life. "Mycroft! I need you _now!"_

 "What has - good God!" Mycroft's voice went from annoyed to horrified in a beat. Sherlock heard the rustle as Mycroft leaned down, his hands hovering over John Watson for a moment. "He's still alive... but I am confident that will not last for long."

 "Let me save him, Mycroft. Let me save him from this so that I can complete my assignment and see him back to his predestined path." Sherlock was aware that he was begging the other Guardian Angel and did not care.. He looked up at Mycroft beseechingly and gave a startled jump: Mycroft seemed oddly transparent. It took Sherlock a moment to realize that, while _he_ had put on a Seeming of a physical body, Mycroft had done no such thing. The Guardian Angel looked transparent because he was not housed in a physical shell at the moment. But Sherlock shook his head faintly to throw the thoughts away from himself; not important, not at the moment.

 Mycroft was hesitating, his palms still hovering over John Watson's head and chest, tracking the failing beats of his heart and the sputtering electric impulses arcing through his brain. Sherlock stared desperately at John's familiar face, eyes tracing the crinkles at the corners of the half-closed eyes and the mouth that would never quirk in an amused smile again unless Sherlock were allowed to do something _right now._

 Finally, after several wasted seconds of deliberating while John Watson edged further away from life and closer to irretrievable death, Mycroft nodded faintly. "All right. A full healing, Sherlock. I'll speak with the Council of Guardian Angels on your behalf and ensure you are not removed from this assignment for doing so."

 And then Mycroft was gone. Sherlock was alone with John Watson and he slid his hands forward across the coolness of white cloth pulled tight to the mattress, wrapping his fingers around the closest part of John he could reach: John's left wrist, laying limply on the bedspread. He nudged the sleeve up with his fingers and gripped tightly to bare skin, feeling heat rising in the palms of his hands as he undid the horrific damage John had done to himself, knitting together the pieces of John Watson's head that the bullet had torn so horribly apart. This was not like in Afghanistan; Sherlock was not merely slowing the bleeding and lessening the risk of death. He was completely turning the physical clock back, erasing the wound from the tanned skin of John Watson's temple, the blood fading gradually from the bedspread as if it had never been there.

 As soon as the warmth in his palms faded, Sherlock pushed to his feet and held his hands out over John Watson's head and chest, his palms aimed downward as he searched for evidence that the man would be all right. The relief of a steady heartbeat and a brain humming with activity, no damage slowing or halting the signals, almost brought Sherlock back to his knees again in a rush of relief.

 "Who the hell are you?"

 Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he stared down at John. John stared back, his eyes opened wide in confusion and alarm. Sherlock realized that he was leaning over the man where he lay on the bed and that it was probably not the best way for a Guardian Angel to introduce themselves to their charge. Sherlock pulled his hands back and stood up straight, his heart thundering in his chest as he tried to think of what he was meant to say.

 "Wait... I know you." John Watson's expression clearing by degrees as his dark blue eyes searched Sherlock's face. He pushed slowly up onto his elbow and then up to a seated position, one leg dangling off the edge of the bed as he drew the other one onto the mattress, twisting his body to face Sherlock directly. "I've seen you... in Afghanistan. You saved my life when I was shot. I recognize you. But... what are you doing in my bedsit? How did you find me? How did you get in here?"

 Sherlock hesitated, his hands dangling uselessly at his sides. His wings twitched and then stretched wide and trembling behind him as he tried to work off some of the tension thrumming through him, briefly thinking how good it was that the Seeming of a physical human body did not include his wings. Except John's eyes were going even wider as he leaned back slightly, his hands clenching at the bedspread beneath him.

 "And why the _hell_ do you have transparent wings?"

 


	4. Mundane Details

John stared at the beautiful man standing awkwardly across the short span of plain Berber carpet across his bedsit, his eyes flicking restlessly from the semi-transparent shadowy wings to the man's face and then down to his long, lean body, unable to settle anywhere for more than a moment. The wings were very distracting, but, at the same time, the man's face was so unusual that John had trouble looking away from it. It started with the unkempt riot of dark curls that fell heavily over his forehead and ears, the hair thick and nearly black except for the auburn highlights brought out by the lamp across the room. His eyes were slightly tilted upwards at the outer corners and were a blue-green so pale as to almost look as if there was a light shining out through them. His cheekbones were ridiculously high and sharp, his jaw strong, and his lips full with an ostentatious cupid's bow dipping into the top one. Added together, the features created a face that drew John's eyes helplessly over and over, despite his efforts to look away.

 That the stranger's wings were showy enough to draw John's eyes away from his face said a lot about them. Spread as they were, John thought that they had to have over a seven metre wingspan. They very nearly stretched across the entirety of his tiny bedsit. And although they were transparent and indistinct, he could surmise that they would be a color as dark as the man's hair if they were fully visible. John could only just make out the individual feathers on the wings and felt sure that the outermost primary feathers would be as wide across as his palm if he were to put his hand up next to one.

 Compared to his face and wings, the stranger's clothes were plain: dress shoes, a pair of dark grey trousers, and a simple white button-up shirt that looked just slightly too small for the chest beneath it, the buttons doing their utmost to hold the material closed as the man breathed. Although John was suddenly wondering exactly where the wings were attached that the man could _wear_ a shirt.

 "You... can see my wings?" the man asked hesitantly, his voice a timbre so deep that John felt it rather than hearing it. The man cast a glance over his own shoulder as if he were looking at the wings himself, pale eyes sliding back to John after confirming the wings were there.

 "I mean, they're transparent... sort of see-through and indistinct... but I can see wings. They're _real?"_ Disbelief colored the last, John unable to hide it. Who had _wings_ , for God's sake?

 Slowly, the man drew the wings in, folding them tightly against his back until nothing was visible but the very tops of the wings where they rose above his shoulders on either side of his face. It didn't make them any less captivating, although it did give John less obvious surface area to stare at. He was able to focus on the stranger's face better. "Yes, they are real... although you should not be able to see them. I do not usually bring my wings into my Seeming. I must have made a mistake... I put it together very quickly this time. No matter; it changes nothing. My name is Sherlock Holmes and I am your Guardian Angel."

 "You're... my..." John broke off, dissolving into a fit of disbelieving, high-pitched giggles and staring down at the boring tan carpet which - although predictably dull - had not suddenly tried to convince him it was actually sewn from unicorn tails and was definitely preferable to the _Guardian Angel_ standing across from him. When he was able to speak again, he muttered, "I've got a Guardian Angel. Unbelievable. A Guardian Angel?" He looked up at Sherlock again, shaking his head minutely. Another round of giggles burst from him as he realized how utterly ridiculous the statement was. He'd nearly bloody _died_ in Afghanistan. He'd developed problems that utterly erased the life he'd wanted to live and forced him back into a civilian life. He'd been driven to such misery that he'd very nearly taken his own -

 John's laughter died on his lips, his smile sliding away as he slowly turned his head to look down at the bedspread beside him. Just as he'd feared, his handgun was laying on the mattress just beyond where he sat, positioned so that he could quite easily lean out and take it in his hand.

 He turned to look over at Sherlock, knowing his question was written plainly on his face. The Angel hesitated for a moment before he nodded slowly.

 "Yes. You shot yourself."

 "But... am I dead, then? Did I die?"

 "No. I saved... I was _allowed_ to save you. Please, John Watson, we have too much to discuss for you to focus on the attempted suicide. Put it from your mind."

 "Put it... are you utterly _mad?_ " John asked, a volatile mixture of sorrow and anger swirling through him in rapidly increasing waves as he stared incredulously at the Guardian Angel standing across from him. "I tried to _kill_ myself, and your advice is to just forget about it? Do you have any idea how depression works?"

 "Not from personal experience, no," Sherlock admitted, clasping his hands uncomfortably in front of him as he tipped his head slightly to one side, a few curls sliding heavily across his broad forehead as he regarded John with a serious expression. "But, I know that it has weighed on you since you were sent back from Afghanistan. I know you have struggled to find a purpose in your life."

 "Yeah, that's one way to put it," John snapped, anger abruptly overwhelming the sorrow. He pushed up from the bed to stand, facing Sherlock squarely in the small space between the edge of the mattress and the wall behind Sherlock. "A better way to put it would be that I've been completely fucking miserable for six months and I finally hit a wall that I couldn't crawl over so I decided I'd rather die than keep struggling."

 "And that is precisely why I'm _here._ " Sherlock stepped closer to John, crossing the bare metre between them with a few small steps, invading John's personal space without hesitation and tipping his head down to look at the shorter man. John pulled himself up tightly, body going rigid in response to the warmth and subtle pressure of a body standing so close to him. Both hands clenched into fists at his sides and he took a quick breath, wanting to tell the other man to back off, but Sherlock was speaking again.  "I am here to see to it that you not only survive, but _thrive_. You have a destiny that will affect the lives of hundreds of other humans. It is incredibly important that you not only survive this black period of your life but that you return to the business of saving people."

 " _Saving_ people? I was _discharged_ from the Army; I won't be _saving_ anyone anymore."

 "The British Army was never where you were meant to be. When you joined the Army, it was the first time you had gone thoroughly off course," Sherlock explained, the words quick although his expression was patient. "While it was still possible for you to be a force for good as an Army doctor, it was never a place where you could fulfill your destiny."

 "My destiny. All right, what, exactly, is my 'destiny' supposed to be?" John's words were clipped as anger continued to percolate in him.

 "As I said, your life path is meant to be one of service to others. You are meant to save lives, hundreds of them over your lifetime. The lives you save will go on to affect other lives. Your path, if fulfilled, has the potential to affect literally _millions_ of human lives."

 John's anger drained away rapidly, leaving him silently staring up at the Angel standing in front of him. When Sherlock put the scope of things _that_ way, it left John feeling a little bit breathless with the enormity of what his life had the potential to do.

 "So... suicide is out. What should I do, then?"

 "The possible paths will become clearer to me as I spend time with you. I'm afraid my clarity has become somewhat muddied by my time away from you," Sherlock admitted grudgingly, turning his face away from John to stare across at the bedsit's large picture window, grimacing faintly to himself.

 "Time away?" John's brow was furrowed as he tried to follow the Angel's words, feeling like the conversation was completely out of his league. How did one prepare for a conversation with a Guardian Angel? Was there some sort of life experience that would have helped him navigate this better? Certainly his own simple experiences were not sufficient for the challenge.

 "Yes, I've been away from you for awhile. I was punished for taking on a human form to save you in Afghanistan. You were reassigned to another Guardian Angel for six months. I had only just been reassigned when you tried to end your existence." Sherlock gestured towards the gun. John's eyes were pulled back to it again and he grimaced faintly. At that moment, it looked as loathsome as a black beetle laid upon the whiteness of his bedspread, and he felt a tiny shudder go through him. Would he ever be able to look at the weapon again without feeling either disgust or shame at what he had very nearly managed to use it for?

 John turned away from it again, looking up at Sherlock. "All right. So, what are we supposed to do?"

 "I've been assigned to stay with you in this form until you are firmly set back on your path. At that point, I will return to an invisible Guardian, guiding you through subtle, silent nudges."

 John felt sudden disappointment bubbling up in his chest. So, Sherlock was only here temporarily? That wasn't surprising; had he truly expected an Angel to just hang around on Earth for the rest of his human life? He glanced up at Sherlock's impossibly, extraordinarily attractive face and decided he would take however much time he could get with the ethereal Guardian Angel.

 "All right. You're supposed to spend time with me." John paused for a moment before clearing his throat. "I uh... what does that mean?"

 "I will be with you constantly. I will follow you wherever you go. The more we are together, the clearer your new potential paths will become. Eventually, I will be able to start guiding you towards the paths most likely to ensure the completion of your destiny."

 "Wait. Wait. _Constantly?_ " John felt alarm sparkling through him at the word and he backed away until his calves bumped against the low mattress behind him. He wobbled but managed to stay on his feet. The bedsit suddenly felt far too small. "You can't be with me _constantly_. I mean... I have a part time job I have to go to. You can't follow me there."

 "Why not?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

 "Because it's... you have to have a badge to even _get into_ the pathology lab. You don't have a badge."

 "I can make one if you show me yours."

 "You can... Angel. Right. Okay, but, what about when I shower or need the loo?"

 "John, I have followed you incorporeally for years. Do you honestly believe it will affect me to see you in the loo?"

 John held both hands up, palms out towards Sherlock as if to push the very idea away. "No. No, we have to have limits, okay? Boundaries. You won't follow me into the washroom. Ever. I need _some_ basic privacy, after all. All right?"

 Sherlock frowned, his wings lifting up slightly almost as if he were shrugging. "I suppose I can allow you some privacy, if it is something you absolutely need."

 "I absolutely do," John insisted.

 "All right. Is there anywhere else I am not allowed to be? We should sort it all out now to avoid problems in the future."

 John looked around the tiny bedsit. He was supposed to share _this_ with a tall, winged man? It would end up being uncomfortably intimate. He frowned, trying to think of an alternative.

 From across the room, his mobile rang with an incoming call, the vibrations making it dance on the tabletop. It was a welcome distraction from the problem at hand, and John eased past Sherlock carefully, retreating the scant distance to the tiny table to raise his mobile to his ear as he turned his back on Sherlock, giving himself the seeming of privacy even if the actuality was going to be damned hard to come by.

 "Watson," he said, head turning slightly as his eyes slid back to Sherlock across the small distance between them. The taller being was still watching him, his pale eyes intense as he studied John.

 "John! It's Mike. Mike Stamford? We saw each other yesterday in Russell Square Gardens."

 "Mike, yeah. Hi. How are you?" John reached up to rub a hand across his face, attempting to soothe the beginning of a tension headache away, his attention divided between Mike's voice on the other end of the phone and the soft rustle of Sherlock's feathers a few feet away. Everything seemed to be happening all at once and John felt like he was struggling to keep up with it all.

 "I talked to Mrs. Hudson, the friend of mine who has a flat to let? She said she'd love to meet with you as soon as you have availability. She's available as soon as this afternoon, if you'd like." Mike sounded incredibly pleased with himself. John felt a sudden warmth at his back and turned to find Sherlock standing just behind him, his expression interested as he looked down at John. Having the beautiful Guardian Angel standing so close was incredibly distracting; did he not know _anything_ about personal space? They would need to address that soon.

 And then, Mike's words registered. John's eyes went wide with sudden realization. The flat. Of course. He wouldn't _have_ to figure out how to manage two people in the small bedsit. If the flat were even slightly larger than this, it would be absolutely perfect. There was the small matter of finding a flatmate who could actually _pay_ , but John could worry about that later.

 "That's fantastic, Mike. This afternoon would be fine. What's the address?"

 "221B Baker Street," Mike said, delight almost bubbling in his voice. "I'll phone her now and tell her to expect you around... 2pm?"

 "Perfect," John said. Mike rang off and John set the mobile back on the table, turning to Sherlock with a smile. "I think I've figured out how to make our living arrangements much more tolerable."


	5. All the Little Minutiae

 

John Watson had looked nervous initially when he and Sherlock headed to Baker Street to meet their potential landlady. Mrs. Hudson, an elderly but spritely woman with her short, fluffy hair dyed an uniformly dark blonde and with a welcoming twinkle in her eyes, had been obviously delighted to meet her prospective tenant, the smile on her face when she opened the door to John Watson's knock as warm as any smile could be. It immediately erased nearly all John Watson's trepidation from his face and bearing, leaving the short human smiling faintly at the older woman on the steps above them. Sherlock took it all in silently, standing out of the way to allow John Watson to lead the meeting.

 She'd told John that Mike had only good things to say about him and that she'd been trying to find a trustworthy tenant for awhile. Sherlock stood slightly to one side, watching John's face as a flash of pride crossed it. He obviously felt good for being what Mike Stamford would consider 'trustworthy.' It was followed by a quick tremor of John's left hand and Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he ran through the possibilities that could cause a tremor - obviously emotionally triggered and not due to the injury to John Watson's shoulder - to come to the surface at that moment. The most likely cause was John worrying whether he could live up to the high opinion of Mike and the high expectations of Mrs. Hudson. Ridiculous fears, of course; Sherlock _knew_ John. He would easily make Mike Stamford proud and Mrs. Hudson pleased. Still, Sherlock stepped slightly closer, offering his silent support to John Watson.

 John had been opening his mouth, undoubtedly meaning to thank Mrs. Hudson, but her eyes slid to Sherlock where he had moved just behind John. He was giving way to the human who would actually be living in the flat, and hadn't expected to really be a part of the discussion. But Mrs. Hudson's eyes latched onto him; he could feel her regard. He tipped his head slightly to face her and her smile fell away as she let out a little squeak that startled both of the men standing on the pavement outside 221B Baker Street.

 "Sherlock!"

 The word was nearly a gasp, and Mrs. Hudson reached out to grip the doorframe as her legs went suddenly weak. John Watson reached to help her automatically and Sherlock threw a cautious glance around the street. No one was paying attention to the two men and the swooning older lady _yet_ , but he felt sure it would not last; humans, if anything, were curious. He had only a few seconds to smooth the situation over and get them indoors before they would begin drawing unwanted eyes.

 "May we come in, Martha Hudson?" Sherlock asked, his voice polite but intense. John Watson shot him a confused look, but Mrs. Hudson was fluttering her hands at the man as she carefully extricated her arm from his supportive grip.

 "I'm just being silly. I'm so sorry. It's just... Sherlock, it's been _years_ , and I never thought I'd see you again." Mrs. Hudson raised a shaking hand to press her fingertips against her chin as her eyes raked over Sherlock. He could read the shock in her wide eyes and shaking fingers, the tremor in her voice and the way she took little gulps of air as if her lungs had forgotten how to perform their duty. He had not ever thought he would see Martha Hudson again, either, but the existence of a Guardian Angel was anything but predictable.

 "Inside," Sherlock insisted, throwing another glance around the street. A young mother pushing a pram across the way had been shooting curious looks at them for the last fifteen seconds, her curiosity rising the longer the emotional woman faced the two men on her front steps.

 "Of course. I'm so sorry, I'm being - yes, please, come in." Mrs. Hudson stepped back into the building, gesturing with an arm to invite John and Sherlock inside.

 As soon as the door was shut behind them, closing off any more potential gawkers from their conversation, Mrs. Hudson reached out to press one shaking hand gently against Sherlock's shirt front, fingers splaying over one pectoral.

 "You're _real_ ," she whispered, shaking her head slightly.

 "Yes, Martha Hudson, I am real."   

 "You know him?" John Watson stepped forward to join the conversation, his expression pure confusion as he glanced between the tall Guardian Angel and the tiny woman.

 "Oh, I knew him years back." Mrs. Hudson turned to look at John with a suddenly assessing eye. "He's a Guardian Angel, but I think you probably know that already."

 "I... yeah, he mentioned that this morning when he suddenly appeared in my bedsit," John said dryly, throwing a glance over at the dark-haired Angel who was standing silently in front of the door to the street as if guarding it from anyone coming in and interrupting them. Sherlock realized it was highly unlikely, but it was difficult for him to come down from the watchful caution that Martha Hudson's exclamation on the street had brought up in him.

 "When I met him all those years ago, he'd been assigned to my husband," Mrs. Hudson explained.

 "Francis Hudson was sentenced to death in Florida." Sherlock turned a quick, fond look on Mrs. Hudson. "I was able to help out."

 "Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked. Sherlock did not miss the startled look that flashed over John Watson's face at the idea of a Guardian Angel who could thwart the justice system at a whim.

 "Oh, no. I ensured it," Sherlock said, and Mrs. Hudson gave a quick laugh.

 "Frank wasn't a good sort." Mrs. Hudson turned towards John with a warm smile on her face to soften the shock of laughing at her husband's death. "The drugs and the other women... Sherlock's job was to ensure he was taken out of the world before he could kill too many people. Although I do feel terrible for the poor man that Frank _did_ kill..."

 "But there would have been so many more, Martha Hudson." Sherlock spoke soothingly as he reminded her of facts that they had covered many years before when he'd gone to her for assistance in ensuring her husband got the jail sentence he deserved.

 "Oh... _he_ isn't anything like Frank, is he?" Mrs. Hudson asked suddenly, her eyes sliding back to John and widening as she cringed slightly away from him and towards Sherlock.

 "Nothing at all," Sherlock reassured her. "I am here to ensure John Watson _saves_ lives."

 "Oh. Oh, well, then, that's good, isn't it?" Mrs. Hudson's trepidation vanished as quickly as it had appeared and she smoothed her hands gently over the front of her dress, pressing away imaginary wrinkles.

 Sherlock tipped his head to look up a set of stairs just ahead of him in the entryway, seeing from the corner of his eye John Watson turning his attention from Mrs. Hudson to watch Sherlock's movements. Sherlock followed the stairs up with his eyes to a landing on the second floor, raising his eyebrows as he took in the closed door. "Is that our flat?"

 "Oh. Yes, of course." Mrs. Hudson reached into a pocket of her flower-patterned dress and pulled out a set of keys, passing them over to Sherlock, and then turned to look at John again. John seemed to have some difficulty taking his eyes off of his Guardian Angel to focus on Mrs. Hudson the way politeness would dictate, and Mrs. Hudson shook her head slightly, a faint smile lifting her lips. "Head on up, boys. It's fully furnished. Imagine, renting a flat to a Guardian Angel! Of course, I won't be charging you the full rate until you can manage it, Dr. Watson."

 "Oh. Ah, that's kind, but I think we can manage -" John began, jerking his eyes away from Sherlock and looking discomfited at Mrs. Hudson's offer.

 "Don't be ridiculous, John Watson." Sherlock's words were broken up by him already taking the stairs by twos. At the landing, he turned briefly to call back down, "It will simplify things immensely if I do not have to try and play at being human for another tenant. Mrs. Hudson has seen the difficulties of being a Guardian Angel in a world of humans, having watched me stumble around before. Hopefully, we will get you firmly back on your path and you will be able to either afford the flat on your own or find a suitable flatmate."

 Sherlock fumbled with the keys for a moment until he realized the two keys on the ring were duplicates. He quickly unlocked the door and fairly dived inside, his curiosity overwhelming his better sense. He was meant to stay with John Watson at all times, but he had never seen this flat before and he did so enjoy new experiences. Besides, John was already clumping his way up the stairs after Sherlock; he would be fine while Sherlock took a moment to peruse the flat's interior.

 Mrs. Hudson had thought ahead and had the heavy velvet curtains at the windows in the sitting room drawn, leaving only sheer white curtains over the windows to prevent people from the building opposite seeing in but not impeding the afternoon sunlight from brightening the flat. It was, as she had said, fully furnished, and Sherlock looked around, taking it in.

 There were a pair of armchairs positioned in front of the unlit fireplace, a television sitting just behind the shorter of the armchairs in front of a set of empty bookcases. There was a wooden dining room table shoved against the wall between the two tall sitting room windows and a rather comfortable-looking couch just beside Sherlock when he entered the sitting room. The entire room looked cozy and serviceable, and, as he moved through to the kitchen, he saw a second dining room table as well as a tall end table that appeared to be the landing spot for a microwave oven. He poked at the microwave oven curiously; he hadn't had the opportunity to explore one in his last assignment while in a human Seeming. He hoped he would have ample opportunities to experiment with this microwave while watching over John Watson.

 A hallway led off of the kitchen and Sherlock swarmed down it, his wings fluttering absentmindedly with excitement behind him as he explored. He could hear the heavy thump of John Watson coming up the stairs to the landing, favoring the leg he always favored. Briefly, Sherlock wondered if he could convince John to stop limping if he pointed out that the limp was psychosomatic, but he quickly shook the thought off; if John could not be gently nudged onto a path by a Guardian Angel, he was unlikely to suddenly stop limping if he were told to.

 Sherlock heard John's heavy footfalls pause in the doorway of the sitting room, apparently taking in the first look at the flat as Sherlock had done, and Sherlock nearly ran back down the hall and through the kitchen to greet John.

 "This is perfect, John Watson," Sherlock said, pulling himself up straight across the sitting room from his charge, barely suppressing the smile of satisfaction that the flat inspired in him. "There is more than enough room for you to not feel haunted by my presence."

 John gave an uncomfortable huff of laughter. He was staring at Sherlock with a furrowed brow. "I didn't... Sherlock, you weren't making me feel _haunted_. The bedsit just wasn't big enough for two men - I mean, one man and one Angel. For both of us. We would've been underneath each other's feet all the time and it would've driven us both mad. Okay?"

 Sherlock hesitated, shifting slowly from one foot to the other as he considered John Watson's words. "Then... you don't mind having me around?"

 "Of course, I don't," John said, giving a single hard, surprised blink. "You think I mind... you're my Guardian Angel. I'd have to be mad if I minded having you around. Wouldn't do me much good, anyway, would it?"

 Sherlock turned away, moving across the room to the armchair upholstered in what looked like black imitation leather. He stepped up onto the seat before turning and perching on the back with his shoes resting on the cushion, his long wings trailing unimpeded behind him. It was much more comfortable than sitting in it properly, he decided, and wondered why Mycroft bothered pretending to be always sitting in the office chair when talking with his subordinates. Any Angel who'd ever taken a physical Seeming and sat on an actual chair would know instantly that Mycroft was imitating the least comfortable way to sit in a chair.

 John clumped slowly through the flat, taking it in as he wandered around the rooms. Sherlock watched him peering through the door to the washroom and the bedroom beyond, fascinated by the way John Watson moved now that he was no longer an active duty soldier. Despite the limp, he still moved like someone who'd spent time in the service. It was oddly captivating, Sherlock thought.

 John finally turned and came limping back, the faint smile on his lips making the outside corners of his eyes crinkle endearingly. "I think it's going to work really well," he said, eyes sweeping once more around the sitting room, his expression thoughtful.

 Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the flat just then, neatening up and nudging things into place as she moved around the sitting room. "What do you think, then, Dr. Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms." She threw a knowing glance at John where he stood and Sherlock turned his attention to John, as well. John's eyes were once more locked onto Sherlock, drawn back like iron filings to a magnet. It almost made Sherlock feel a touch of pride, something that was frowned upon in Guardian Angels. But then, he wasn't _in_ the Heavenly Realms at the moment; enjoying the admiration of his charge wasn't absolutely forbidden when in the Seeming of a human.

 But John's cheeks were coloring faintly at Mrs. Hudson's words and he was drawing his eyes away from contemplation of his Guardian.

 "Of _course_ , we'll be needing two," John said quickly, turning towards Mrs. Hudson, his expression twisting in embarrassment by her assertion.

 "We won't, actually." Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and bent forward to rest his elbows on his knees as he watched his charge's discomfiture. "I don't sleep, John Watson. I won't be needing a bedroom at all."

 "Oh." John turned to stare at Sherlock with a blank expression, his voice faintly surprised. "Oh. Well. All right."

 "Oh, there's all sorts around here," Mrs. Hudson said comfortingly. She lowered her voice conspiratorially, leaning towards John. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones."

 With that, she moved into the kitchen, humming to herself as she opened cabinets, checking that everything was in order.

 "Married... God." John Watson reached up to rub at his forehead, eyes closing briefly. Sherlock fought a smile at John's mortification, finding it utterly charming. After a second, John's hand dropped from his face abruptly and he snapped his head up, shooting an apologetic glance at Sherlock. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

 "Sorry for what?" Sherlock asked, puzzled. He slid from the chair smoothly, stepping off the cushion and down onto the floor to the subtle sound of feathers dragging across leather.

 "For... taking the Lord's name in vain?" John said, cringing slightly.

 "Oh, I don't care about that." Sherlock waved the words negligently away with one hand. "I've never met God. I'm not one of the higher angels, after all. I'm just a Guardian. I'm basically a glorified human soul given wings and a touch of magic."

 John stared for a long moment, looking nonplussed. Finally, he cleared his throat, taking a step closer to Sherlock and lowering his voice. "But, does it matter? To... to Him?" He jerked a thumb towards the ceiling, and Sherlock's brow furrowed for a moment as he tried to guess at John's meaning. He realized quickly that John Watson was not referring to another human in the bedroom upstairs but rather to God, ensconced in the Heaven humans assumed had to be above Earth.

 "You mean God? Not that I've ever heard of. I imagine He has other things on His mind, to be quite honest."

 "Really?" John said, surprise evident in his voice.

 "Do you truly think He's sitting in the Heavenly Realms with a checklist, ticking down how many times people have taken His name in vain?" Sherlock asked, giving a little scoff before turning away to stalk over to one of the tall windows that looked out over Baker Street. He twitched one of the filmy curtains back, looking down at the traffic as it passed, eyeing the cars with interest; would he have a chance to drive one at some point?

 Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson come back into the sitting room but stayed where he was, watching the various models of cars with quiet interest; it was up to John Watson to decide if he wanted to stay in this flat. Sherlock would follow wherever John went.

 "So, Dr. Watson." Mrs. Hudson stopped a few steps away from him, clasping her hands at her waist as she stared at him, her voice expectant. "Will you be taking the flat?"

 "With the discount you're giving me, how could I refuse?" John said. "Thank you, again. This is absolutely fantastic."

 "Lovely!" Mrs. Hudson said, her voice going high as she clapped her hands together in her enthusiasm. "You can move in straight away, if you'd like."

 "Sherlock?" John called, and Sherlock turned away from the window to face him. "What do you say? Shall we move my things in straight away? We could go back to the bedsit and get all my things packed, if you feel up to helping with the work right now."

 "Your things?" Sherlock raised a single eyebrow, his eyes drifting towards the ceiling as he mentally ran through the bedsit's contents. "A laptop, a handgun, some toiletries, and your clothes? It should take us roughly a half an hour to pack."

 "Yes. Thank you... for making my life sound utterly dismal," John murmured, and Sherlock stiffened as he realized he'd made a mistake. He folded his wings tightly to his back, hands clenching into nervous fists at his sides. Mrs. Hudson clucked at Sherlock, giving him a sad look.

 "Really, Sherlock," she said, her voice scolding, "you're as bad now as you were fifteen years ago."

 Sherlock's eyes ticked between Mrs. Hudson and John for a moment before dropping down to the wooden floorboards, trying to find the right response. He had obviously discomfited John Watson, but how did one make up for such a thing? It was considerably easier being an _incorporeal_ Guardian; there was no risk of saying something either embarrassing or incorrect and therefore making your charge angry at you. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock raised his head to stare at John Watson, meeting his charge's eyes directly.

 "I apologize." Sherlock's words were slightly stiff and formal, but he was certain they were the _right_ words.  "I did not mean to cause offense. I was stating the facts... and I did it poorly."

 Mrs. Hudson patted John's shoulder gently. "He means well, Dr. Watson. He'll get a little better as he spends time around you and learns what sets you off, but he'll be almost intolerable initially." Sherlock shut his eyes tightly, self-conscious at the truth in her words. Mrs. Hudson gave John's shoulder one more perfunctory pat before turning and heading out of the flat, leaving John and Sherlock alone.

John cleared his throat, giving his left hand a little shake before glancing around the flat once more. "Well, we'd better get a move on, then. Lots of packing to do... almost thirty whole minutes, right?"

Sherlock looked back up at John Watson sharply, wondering if he'd annoyed the man so badly that John would be throwing Sherlock's words back into his face for the rest of the day. Then he saw the faint smile ticking up the corners of John's mouth and relaxed, smiling back willingly. He was forgiven.

Sherlock's estimate of thirty minutes to pack up the flat had been generous. John had most of his clothing still in boxes shoved into the closet. It was a simple matter of stuffing the few items he'd been using regularly on top of the clothes already in boxes and they were finished with the bedsit. John did not look even slightly sorry to walk out of it, shutting the door behind him perhaps slightly more firmly than necessary. Sherlock supposed that was a normal reaction; while he had not spent much time living in the human world - not that he could remember, anyway - he could nonetheless tell that the bedsit was a rather dismal place to live. Add to it the fact that John had nearly killed himself in that small room and it was unsurprising that the man was eager to leave it behind. It was impossible for Sherlock to miss the way John's eyes kept ticking to the bed on which he'd nearly died hours before; it was good that the packing took less time than expected. The sooner they left the bedsit behind, Sherlock thought, the better.

Sherlock followed John out of the building, his arms full of the boxes that John had struggled to carry until it become obvious that he would not be able to manage them with a single arm.

 "This bloody thing," he muttered, glaring angrily down at his leg. Sherlock pressed his lips together; it would do them no good for Sherlock to blurt out that the limp was psychosomatic. Instead, he took all the boxes into his arms. When John shot him a look of mingled shame and gratitude, Sherlock shrugged faintly.

 "I serve you, John Watson," he said simply, watching as color chased up John's throat to throw a pink hue over his cheeks. Sherlock had many times before wished he had the ability to read his charges' thoughts, but he had never wanted it so much as he had once he'd been assigned to John Watson. Sherlock had thought that he might stop wanting the impossible once he was in a human Seeming, walking beside John on Earth, but instead he found himself wishing more frequently that he had the ability to delve into John's thoughts and pick out the reasons for the things he did.

 "Well," John said, pausing for a long moment before clearing his throat and pulling a quick - and obviously false - smile. "Okay. That's... okay." And John turned away quickly, clearing his throat again as he made his limping way down the hall and Sherlock followed quietly behind.

 Upon returning to their new home, John deposited the boxes on the bed in the bedroom at the end of the long hall off the kitchen without opening them. "I can worry about that stuff later," he said after Sherlock cast a confused glance at him, wondering why John would leave his possessions in the boxes rather than taking charge of the bedroom by claiming it with his things. "Right now, I'd rather order a takeaway; I'm starving."

 "Ah, of course," Sherlock said, fluffing the feathers on his wings as understanding swept over him. "I forget sometimes that humans need to eat regularly."

 John Watson made a face at the words, his expression torn between amusement and confusion, but he shook his head faintly. It seemed he was already adjusting to the non sequiturs of his Guardian. John was reaching into his pocket to dig out his mobile when it suddenly chimed with an incoming call.

 "Oh," John murmured in surprise, pulling the phone out and holding it up to glance at the screen. Sherlock moved until he stood just behind John, the warmth radiating off of John's back pulsing against his chest as he leaned close enough to listen to the conversation.

 "Watson."

 "Oh, John, it's Molly." The woman on the other end of the line had a high, nervous-sounding voice. Sherlock wondered who she could be and cursed, again, the last six months of John Watson's life that he had been excluded from; the Council were a bunch of idiots, taking him from his charge and then thrusting him back in without a proper summary of what he had missed out on. Not that he had truly given Victor or Mycroft the chance to give him a summary, but he would rather be annoyed at the Council than at his own impatience to return to John Watson's side. He sighed softly, tipping his head forward to put it closer to the mobile pressed to John's ear.

 "Hello, Molly." John sounded slightly confused and curious. Did that mean this Molly woman didn't call very often? Was she a friend? A colleague?

 "Look, I know it's not your day to come in, but Dr. Erikson's ill so I'm having to do his job and I need an assistant for a P.M. I know it's not your usual thing, but you're overqualified for your job, anyway - I had a look at your resume, please don't be angry - and I really need your help. I've never done one on my own. Please, John, say you'll come help." 

John took a breath, obviously thrown off by the outpouring of words from the 'Molly' on the other end of the line, reaching up to rub one palm over his chin as he thought over her request. The sound of his palm scrubbing against the stubble of a long day distracted Sherlock for a moment from his contemplation of the phone call, drawing his eyes down to John's face in silent contemplation of the way the short, scratchy hairs changed the lines and planes of his human charge's face into something both unfamiliar and yet wonderful.

 John cleared his throat, eyes ticking up to meet Sherlock's for the briefest moment before he turned away, speaking into the mouthpiece. "Right. Yeah, sure, Molly. I'll be there in a minute. Oh, wait." John turned his head slightly to look at Sherlock where he hovered just behind John's shoulder, grimacing in apology as the taller man pursed his lips at John, giving a little shake of his head. John could not go into work without Sherlock and Sherlock could not go into work with John if John were going to be assisting in a postmortem. Keeping an eye on John when other people were interacting with him constantly would not be easy. Sherlock's wings half-spread behind him in a rush of annoyance, dimming the light coming through the bedroom window beyond him. "My... my flatmate. He's with me... can he come in, too?"

 "If Dr. Erikson was here, I'd say no, but _I_ don't mind him being here," Molly said. "I just need help, all right? This is... it's one of the serial suicides. The ones that've been all over the news and in all the papers? I don't want to mess this up. DI Lestrade is counting on me."

 "All right. We'll be there in a bit." John rung off, turning to look at Sherlock. "Well, at least for _this_ visit, you won't have to make yourself a fake badge."


	6. The Pink Lady

As he rode in the back of a cab next to Sherlock, watching the tall Guardian Angel twist uncomfortably to find somewhere for his tightly folded wings to rest without crushing his trailing pinions, John had to pause to consider the unreality of his life in the last 12 hours. He'd woken up that morning with the same thought repeating in his mind that he always had when faced with another bleak day: 'Nothing ever happens to me.'

 Had he known what was in store for him when he'd taken his handgun out from underneath his laptop in the desk drawer, he never would have attempted to end his own life. In the space of a few hours, he had somehow gotten an absolutely gorgeous Guardian Angel, moved into a spacious flat he should absolutely not have been able to afford, and was being called in to assist on the postmortem of one of the highest profile cases he'd ever seen in the newspapers. Any one of those things had the potential to completely turn his life around, but all three of them together made him feel like a stranger compared to the man he'd been that morning.

 John's eyes slid subtly over to Sherlock, drinking in the Angel's profile slowly as Sherlock shifted again, still trying to find a comfortable way to sit in the backseat of the cab. The profile was the same one he remembered from Afghanistan, absolutely nothing in it changed in the months separating John's first near-death and his new one that morning. Even the dark curls that tumbled haphazardly over Sherlock's brow were the same, no new length added to them or any noticeable change in the way they quirked and twirled. They were as perfect now as they had been months ago when Sherlock had been pressing against the gunshot in John's shoulder, preventing him from bleeding to death on the hot sand on which he was collapsed. Sherlock was utterly unchanged and utterly perfect.

 Yes, John decided, Sherlock was most certainly the biggest perk of his new life. He was an Angel and not the human rescuer that John had taken him to be when John had first seen him in Afghanistan, and that almost certainly meant that John fancying him was absolutely pointless, but John would happily indulge in drinking in the features of the ethereal creature for as long as he'd be allowed to. The cab ride to St. Bart's Hospital was much more tolerable with Sherlock sharing the cab and distracting John's gaze and thoughts with his delicate frown and uncomfortable, shivering wings.

 Molly was waiting for John in the darkened hallway just outside the morgue, pacing back and forth in front of the morgue's double doors and wringing her slim fingers together. As soon as John stepped into the long hallway from the main corridors of the hospital, relief washed over her features and she rushed down the hallway to him, fingers still clasped tightly against her abdomen as if she were trying to hold her organs in.

 "John! Thank God! I know I can handle this, but I'm just worried I might mess something up and I just wanted a second set of eyes and - oh." Molly broke off as Sherlock stepped through the double doors behind John, his pale eyes sweeping around the long, dark hallway with obvious curiosity, dancing around with speed of his interest. "I... hello."

 "Molly Hooper, this is Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate." John stepped to one side to allow the two to meet, clasping his hands behind his back as he fought the urge to add 'and my Guardian Angel. Assigned to me.'

 "Hello," Molly said again, her voice thin and stunned as she took in the tall man before her, and Sherlock turned his attention to her briefly.

 "You have a cat. Do you enjoy having a cat?" Sherlock's eyes were sweeping down Molly's slim form, ticking from spot to spot with the same kind of hungry curiosity that he had been applying to each new person and place that John introduced him to.

 "I... what? I mean, yes, I really like having a cat. But, how did you know I have a cat?" Molly sounded utterly perplexed, and John had to admit that he was feeling much the same.

 "There are short, white hairs on your trousers." Sherlock pointed with one long, slim finger down, indicating the hairs that clung to her clothing before sweeping his finger up to her torso. "Could be from a dog, but there are also small spots on your cardigan where a cat's claws have pulled the threads. Since there are several spread across the entire cardigan, it's safe to assume you own a cat and that the pulls happened over some time rather than the pulls happening while visiting a friend with a cat. It's unlikely that you have more than one cat - the number of hairs isn't nearly enough for two. It's probably still a young cat, too; there are a few faint pulls at the bottoms of your trousers where a playful kitten's paws would catch but where an adult feline is unlikely to apply it's claws."

 "Amazing," John whispered, staring at the Angel with unguarded admiration. If Sherlock was seeking out clues from everything new that crossed his path, it was hardly any wonder that he practically visually devoured each new place that he went with John.

 Sherlock blinked, turning away from Molly to look at the shorter man, his voice soft as he said, "Do you think so?"

 "Of _course_ , it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." John glanced over at Molly's trousers, giving a little shake of his head as he took in the short white hairs clinging to the fabric. Molly pressed her thin lips nervously, leaning down to brush at them ineffectually as John turned his head back to Sherlock, a faint smile touching his lips. "You got all that just from looking at her clothes?"

 "Mm." Sherlock glanced around the hallway. "Will we be waiting out here long?"

 "Oh. Right, sorry. No, we can go in - please, come with me." Molly spun away, fingers still brushing nervously at her cardigan as if she could smooth away the pulled threads. She pushed open the doors to the morgue and John and Sherlock followed her into the bright, sterile environment. John heard the slightest falter in Sherlock's steps as the Guardian Angel  tried to take in as much of the morgue as he could while Molly and John moved over to a sheet-draped body on a table.

 "You'll have to stay back." John held a hand towards Sherlock, stopping him from getting too close to the covered body as he and Molly began slipping into a pair of gowns that Molly had presumably laid out while she'd been waiting for them to arrive. "You aren't authorized to be here. _I'm_ not even supposed to be here, strictly speaking, but I'm familiar enough with the procedure that I don't risk mucking everything up."

 "And this one is _so_ important." Molly's voice was earnest even as she tied a thin cloth mask over her mouth, fingers moving deftly at the back of her head to secure the strings together. "She's part of the serial suicides that have been happening, and Detective Inspector Lestrade is counting on me to find something he's missed so he can move forward with the investigation. He should be here in the next ten minutes to oversee the autopsy..." Molly trailed off, glancing towards the double doors quickly before turning back to John. "We really can't mess this up."

 John had been lost in his own personal emotional hell for awhile, but even crushed under misery, he hadn't failed to notice the interest Molly had been expressing in the Detective Inspector from New Scotland Yard. He was also fairly certain the DI was married, but that was no reason for him to crush Molly's harmless infatuation. Still, he was glad of his own mask covering his smile at the worshipful note in Molly's voice while she spoke of Lestrade.

 John finished his prep for the autopsy by slipping thin, disposable cotton booties over his own shoes, protecting himself from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet just in case the autopsy got unexpectedly messy. Molly, more familiar with the procedures than John, was already gowned and ready to go, waiting with a kind of nervous patience as he finished up and moved closer to the sheet-draped body on the table. Behind him, he heard the double doors wheeze open and threw a glance over his shoulder to watch a strong-jawed, grey-haired man in a slightly wrinkled suit walk into the morgue, his expression one of exhausted frustration.

 "Hello, Molly. I heard you were taking on the role of lead pathologist on this one." Lestrade's eyes slid over to John and he gave a quick nod; they'd seen each other frequently in passing when Lestrade was in the morgue to oversee autopsies related to cases on which he was lead investigator. They'd even shared a few shallow chats over bad sandwiches in the cafeteria once or twice. John didn't know the man well, but from what he knew, he found Lestrade friendly as a person and thorough as an investigator. Lestrade's face tightened as he saw Sherlock standing a small ways away from the autopsy table. "Who's this?"

 "He's with me," John said quickly, pleased for the mask over his face; he was a poor liar at the best of times, and he was sure if Lestrade could see his whole face, the DI would know that while Sherlock _was_ with John, the stranger actually had no business being in the morgue. "Are you ready for us to get started, Detective Inspector?"

 "I've told you, John, just call me 'Greg.' You don't need to stand on ceremony with me." Lestrade smiled faintly, throwing one last glance at Sherlock before reaching out to grab one of the face masks and a set of the cotton booties, staying well back from the table but close enough that he could see what was happening.

 Molly clicked on a recorder positioned nearby and began speaking, her voice thin and nervous. "1900 hours, beginning autopsy on Jennifer Wilson, late 30s, fourth in a series of identical suicides. Lead pathologist Molly Hooper, assistant pathologist John Watson. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade overseeing." Molly paused, stepping around the end of the table to move to the other side. Lestrade's eyes had ticked to Sherlock again, realizing that the other man had not been included in the autopsy record, but before he could question Sherlock's presence again, Molly had started speaking. "I've already photographed the body and removed all clothing and jewelry. I've placed them over here - er, I've um... I've placed them on a spare table to the left of the body. Sorry. I'm not used to talking during these. Um. Let's get started."

 John noticed Sherlock drifting slowly through the morgue, moving towards the laid out clothing and jewelry that Molly had indicated, his pale blue eyes sharpening as he approached the table. John didn't miss Lestrade drifting after him, the DI's dark brown eyes narrowing slightly as he watched Sherlock with obvious suspicion. Molly had been reaching for the sheet to uncover the body but she'd barely begun folding it back to reveal Jennifer Wilson's body down to her hips when Sherlock made a thoughtful noise behind her and she jumped badly, dropping the sheet and spinning towards him.

 "God!" Molly's thin voice was even more strained and she reached out, clicking off the recorder. "You _scared_ me. When did you move back there?"

 "May I touch these?" Sherlock gestured toward the collection of alarmingly pink clothing and shining gold jewelry laid out on the nearby autopsy table and John pressed his lips behind his mask, moving around the table quickly to stand beside his Guardian Angel.

 "Sherlock, is this really necessary?" John's voice was a low whisper and Lestrade was staring at them both intently, obviously trying to understand their relationship.

 "Her clothes, John. Look at her clothes. Look at her _jewelry_."

 John's eyes ticked over to the assembled items and then back up to Sherlock, John's eyebrows drawing down slightly in confusion. "I see them. What about them?"

 Sherlock made an impatient noise in his throat, pointing with his long, slim index finger but not actually touching anything. "Her earrings and her bracelet are clean and polished. They're well cared-for. But her wedding band is scuffed and dirty on the outside, clean on the inside. She was a serial adulterer with a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married."

 "Who the hell is this? What is he talking about?" Lestrade sounded angry and had stepped closer, crowding into Sherlock. John could see Sherlock's dark wings pulling tighter into his back to avoid brushing against the DI, but the Angel didn't look up at Lestrade. Instead, he pointed again at the ring.

 "The outside of her wedding band is scuffed and dirty while the inside is polished clean. That means it's been regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when it's worked off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails." Sherlock spun briefly, gesturing back towards the half-uncovered body of Jennifer Wilson behind them, her long, bright pink nails obvious against the paleness of her skin and the sterile metallic gleam of the autopsy table. He turned again, jabbing his finger impatiently at her wedding band. "She doesn't work with her hands, so what - or, rather, _who_ \- does she remove her rings for? Clearly not _one_ lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

 "That's brilliant." The words were out of John's mouth before he was even aware he was going to say them, his heart thundering in his chest as he saw what Sherlock was pointing out to them with angry jabs of his long, graceful index finger. Sherlock looked up, meeting his eyes briefly, and John felt a flutter in his belly as his admiration for Sherlock's amazing mind blended with his ever-present awe of Sherlock's gorgeous face. "You uh... here, gloves. You can touch as long as you're wearing gloves. You've written all the clothes and jewelry down in the log, right, Molly?"

 "Yeah. Yeah, I have, but John -"

"We're right here. Lestrade is watching. He won't take anything; I can give my word on that." John handed over a set of purple Nitrile gloves and Sherlock slid them on, still staring intently down at Jennifer Wilson's clothing. As soon as he had the gloves on, he began sliding his hands delicately over her clothing before lifting his hands towards his face, examining the fingertips of the Nitrile gloves thoughtfully as Lestrade, Molly, and John watched him with varying degrees of curiosity and frustration. He circled the table in quick, mincing steps, lifting an umbrella and then lowering it back to the table almost immediately. He lifted a set of stockings carefully, turning them over and  _hmm_ ing softly in the back of his throat before lowering them again. He broke the silence, glancing up at John and meeting the man's eyes with a kind of shocking intensity that made John's mouth feel suddenly dry.

"She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. There's an umbrella with her things, but it's dry and unused; not just wind,  _strong_ wind - too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't fully dried between the time of her murder and the beginning of the autopsy. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" Sherlock stopped, looking expectantly at his audience. Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Molly and Lestrade exchanging confused glances, Molly giving a quick little shrug. John fumbled into his pocket, the Nitrile glove on his own hand catching against the cotton of his trousers as he forced his fingers in, pulling out his mobile and passing it to Sherlock.

"I have internet on my phone. You can check..." John trailed off; Sherlock was tapping at the phone with familiarity; he'd obviously seen one being used before. John smiled faintly behind his mask as Sherlock held up the phone triumphantly.

"Heavy rain and strong wind in Cardiff six hours ago. That allows two or three hours of travel time plus another three to four hours for the body to be discovered and moved to the morgue."

"That's _fantastic!"_ John reached out to take his phone as Sherlock held it towards him. The tall Angel paused, lips pursing slightly as he looked at John thoughtfully.

 "Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock's voice was a low murmur, almost too intimate for the current setting and the number of people in the room. Lestrade cleared his throat, leaning back slightly; he was as aware as John was of how Sherlock had sounded.

 "Sorry. I'll shut up." John shoved the phone clumsily back into his trouser pocket, keeping his eyes down on the floor.

 "No, it's... fine." Sherlock sounded surprised at his own acquiescence.

 "Look, stop." Lestrade was leaning forward again, invading Sherlock's personal space. This time, the Guardian Angel turned to face him, wings giving a tiny shiver like a horse's flank trembling to shake off a biting fly. "You said something about a suitcase. How d'you know she had a suitcase?"

 "Back of the right leg." Sherlock moved to the stockings again, lifting them slightly and turning them. "Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was only staying one night." Sherlock stopped, glancing around the morgue as if expecting the suitcase to jump out at him. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

 "There wasn't a case."

 Sherlock froze, his face going completely expressionless as he took in Lestrade's words. He set the stockings down gently, resting his purple-gloved fingertips lightly on the edge of the metal autopsy table, staring hard at Lestrade. "Say that again."

 "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase." Lestrade sounded frustrated, his hands balled into fists even as he crossed his arms across his chest, his chin jutting towards the Guardian Angel in challenge.

 Sherlock was spinning around the table, though, rushing to Jennifer Wilson's body. John and Molly both called out to him, but he stopped before he touched her. He leaned close, peering into her slightly opened mouth before leaping back from her autopsy table and stripping his gloves off with a loud snap.

 "She's taken the poison herself. She chewed, swallowed some pill - there are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss that."

 "Hey!" Molly sounded faintly hurt, but John waved a quelling hand at her, trying to understand what Sherlock was getting at.

 "It's a _murder_. You said she's the fourth in a series? They're _all_ murders. I don't know how, but they're not suicides. They're killings - _serial_ killings!"

 "No, wait, why are you saying that?" Lestrade demanded, pushing roughly past John to move closer to Sherlock. His eyebrows were drawn low and every inch of his body was radiating suspicion.

 "Her _case!_ " Sherlock said, his voice nearly frantic. "Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was with her when she was killed, and they took her case. Where was her body discovered?"

 "Now, stop. I'm not telling you a bloody thing until I know a bit more about you." Lestrade reached up, jerking the medical mask up and off his head roughly, the strings ruffling his short hair. He smoothed the hair unconsciously with his free hand with the other hand balled the mask up in swift, angry motions.

 "She might've checked into a hotel," John said quickly, trying to quell the brewing anger in the room. He reached up and pulled his mask down to hang below his chin, freeing his mouth. "She could've left her case there."

 "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." Sherlock stopped, his face lighting up abruptly as he breathed out a soft _'oh'_ before spinning and moving rapidly towards the double doors that led out of the morgue.

 "Sherlock?" John called, and the Guardian Angel spun back towards John, his eyes nearly glowing with excitement. John took a step towards him, drawn inexorably closer by the nearly magnetic attraction he felt for the Angel, especially when Sherlock was standing before him with his face lit up that way. "What is it?"

 "Look at her, really _look_." Sherlock pointed back towards Jennifer Wilson's body and her possessions, but only Molly glanced back; Lestrade and John both had their eyes fixed on Sherlock. "Whoever the killer is, he's made a mistake."

 "What mistake?" Lestrade demanded, and the anger in his voice had melted into curiosity despite the heaviness of his lowered eyebrows and the tightness of his jaw.

 "Pink!" Sherlock shouted, and then he was through the double doors. Lestrade cursed beneath his breath and broke into a run. John limped heavily after him, cursing silently at his leg as he caught up to the DI in the dark hallway outside the morgue. Lestrade was standing in place, glancing up and down the hall with frustration evident in every line of his body. Sherlock wasn't in the hallway, not even a distant door slowly wheezing shut to indicate which way he'd gone.

 "Who the hell was that?" Lestrade demanded, spinning on John. John held up one hand soothingly, leaning heavily onto his cane.

 "Greg, look, he's my new flatmate. But, I swear to you, he's had nothing to do with these serial suicides. He only arrived in London this morning, all right? Besides, he's... he's _really_ not the type to kill anyone. He's just... he's a genius, okay? A proper genius. He's brilliant and he's incredibly observant. He knew about Molly's cat."

 "Molly's _cat?_ " Lestrade repeated, sounding completely confused. Molly, who had pushed open the double doors to join the two men in the hallway, piped up shyly.

 "He did, though. He just... he looked at my cardigan and my trousers and he knew I had a cat." She pointed at the pulled threads in her cardigan. "See? He's caught a few threads with his claws here. And then down here, on my trousers, some of his hairs."

 Lestrade leaned close, eyes narrowing as he worked to make out the details in the dim light of the hallway. John watched color swim slowly up Molly's face as she quickly averted her eyes, staring down the dim hallway towards the double doors that led into the hospital proper. After a moment, Lestrade straightened up with a soft grunt.

 "All right, I can see the pulls and the cat hair, but what does that have to do -"

 "Because he sees the details," John interrupted quickly. "He looks at things like cardigans or wedding bands and sees everything about the person who owns them. I don't know how he does it; my mind doesn't work like that. But, he does it. He's a real genius. So, if he says it's a serial killer, it probably is one. And we have a body waiting in there for an autopsy with clues that might actually lead us to who the killer is."

 "Should we be looking for clues that could lead to a killer?" Molly asked. "What about confirmation bias?"

 Lestrade paused for a moment before throwing his hands up. "Yeah, to hell with confirmation bias. Everything he said about Jennifer Wilson's possessions makes sense; do the autopsy and look for signs of a murderer."

 Lestrade moved between John and Molly, shoving the double doors open once more as he moved into the morgue again, muttering under his breath. John and Molly exchanged a glance and then turned to follow, John throwing one last glance up and down the dark hallway before heading back into the morgue. Where had Sherlock gotten off to?


	7. The Irresistible Mysteries

Sherlock dropped his human Seeming as soon as he reached the wide, dimly lit hall outside the morgue. He heard John and Lestrade rush out after him, but he was already moving at the speed of thought to New Scotland Yard, flitting from person to person as he sought someone talking about or doing paperwork for the Jennifer Wilson murder. He stopped when he found a woman with copious tight curls and an aggrieved expression talking in a sharp, annoyed tone to a thin man with a sharp nose who watched her with barely-concealed worship.

 "Jennifer Wilson won't be the last, mark my words. _Someone_ is causing this, and none of us have any idea who or why." The woman pushed an angry fist at the hair near her right ear, moving as if to tuck it back and then giving up when the heavy, thick curls sprung forward as soon as her hand moved away from them. "And what the hell was she even doing in the abandoned building?"

 "Maybe she wanted a private spot for her suicide?" the man suggested, his nasal voice grating on Sherlock's ears. The Guardian Angel cringed back from the thin stranger, glad that he was currently incorporeal so that he didn't have to censor his reaction.

 "Come on, Philip. If she wanted privacy, she'd get a motel room or something. A decrepit building? No one would go there. Well, no one who wasn't at the very end of their tether, anyway. Did you _see_ Jennifer Wilson's clothes? She wasn't anywhere near the end. I'm telling you, there's more to it and we're just not seeing it." The woman sighed heavily, reaching down to snatch a folder off of the desk beside her. "I need to deliver these copies of the completed case report. See you later?"

 "Later?" Philip paused, glancing around the busy office at the other people who were moving with purpose from place to place or working diligently at their desks. "I was thinking maybe we could take an early night, Sally. My wife is stuck at her shift until after 10pm."

 Sally pressed her full lips together, shooting her own assessing glance around the office. "It's almost nine now, though."

 "So, we'd have to hurry," Philip urged, putting one hand lightly on the folder in Sally's hand and lowering his nasal voice slightly, leaning closer to her and meeting her eyes directly. "You could come back and deliver those first thing tomorrow morning, couldn't you?"

 Sally smiled slowly, dropping the folder onto her desk and grabbing a coat from the back of the desk chair near them. The two rushed from the office, leaving Sherlock standing alone at the desk. After a quick glance around to reassure himself that no one was looking his way, he stepped into a human Seeming and flipped open the folder, eyes skimming over the information on the first page, looking desperately for the address where they'd found Jennifer Wilson's body.

 There. He had it. The address was in Lauriston Gardens. He could be there in seconds.

 He popped out of his Seeming between one blink and the next and was at the abandoned building at the speed of thought. The police tape across the door did not even make the Guardian Angel hesitate; he was inside and following the marks of multiple pairs of shoes in the gathered dust and detritus that covered the floors as he made his way upstairs to Jennifer Wilson's final resting place.

 It was obvious from his first glance that the suitcase was not secreted somewhere inside the empty, dirty room where her body had been found. If the murderer had brought Jennifer Wilson to the empty, ramshackle building - which seemed likely; the woman almost certainly had no reason to have come to the building herself - then that meant that the suitcase had to have been left somewhere in the murderer's vehicle. The man or woman who had forced Jennifer Wilson to chew a poison pill would have to have been exceptionally stupid to not have noticed her suitcase. Sherlock had been able to look at Jennifer Wilson's clothes, shoes, and nail polish - all the same perfectly matched alarming shade of pink - and know that her suitcase would almost certainly have been bought to match the rest of her ensemble, like some kind of oversized Barbie doll. A bright pink suitcase would have stood out like a sore thumb in a vehicle. It would have taken the murderer no more than five minutes to see it, panic, and start looking for somewhere out of the public eye to dump it.

 Sherlock fell back into his Seeming of a physical body on the pavement outside the decrepit building, taking a second to adjust to the feel of cold, hard cement beneath his feet and the cool evening breeze as it whipped through his curls and ruffled the Seeming of clothing on his body. Across the street, a homeless man wearing an oversized jacket and a knitted hat glanced over at Sherlock and raised his eyebrows, rheumy eyes slowly sliding over the thin button-up shirt and tailored trousers before shaking his head and turning away. Sherlock realized he wasn't dressed for the cooler temperatures of the evening and created a coat for himself. It was long, made of heavy wool, and the same dark shade as his own wings. It suited him perfectly and made him considerably less conspicuous on the chilly streets of London.

 On foot, it took no more than half an hour for Sherlock to find the abandoned suitcase buried under some rubbish in a back alley. As soon as he had the pink case in his hands and had celebrated his own triumph in silence, clutching the suitcase close to his chest as he stared about the dark alleyway in smirking success, horrified realization rushed over him: he'd left John Watson alone to satisfy his own curiosity about the possibility of a hidden suitcase. He'd abandoned his duties as Guardian Angel to chase after what could have amounted to nothing more than a wild fancy. True, he had the case in his hands _now_ , but that didn't change the fact that he'd acted as a very poor Guardian Angel.

 He mentally cringed at his own behavior as he leaped a fence to get back to the main street, suitcase swinging heavily from his left hand as his feet landed bruisingly hard on the cracked pavement. He had done this exact same thing before when he'd assumed the Seeming of a physical form. Somehow, being in a human body muddled his determination as a Guardian Angel and left him the flawed human he had been before his early death. He'd been warned after his assignment to Francis Hudson had gone so horribly wrong, Sherlock's own distraction leaving Francis the opportunity to commit a murder that should never have happened. Of course, it had made it easier for Sherlock to ensure Francis Hudson ended up removed from the world, as his destiny decreed, but the weight of the innocent who had died at Sherlock's charge's hands still weighed on his soul.

 Sherlock hailed the first cab he saw, giving them the address of John's new flat. He had no way of knowing if John Watson had completed the autopsy at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, but it would be better to be at the flat to make his apologies than to head back to the morgue in the hopes that John Watson would still be there and wind up racing around the city like a fool as he tried to get to his charge. And he couldn't leave his physical Seeming behind now that he had the suitcase; doing so would leave it behind in the physical world. Sherlock would be obliged to take the slow route back to John Watson.

 Despite his mental haranguing, Sherlock could not stop himself from resting one proprietary hand on the bright pink suitcase on the seat next to himself. He had found it. He had deduced that there was a murderer, that Jennifer Wilson was missing a suitcase, and that the murderer had to have the case. _He_ had found it.

 The flat was empty when Sherlock walked into it, pulling the rolling pink case behind him through the sitting room. As soon as he was in the relative safety of the flat, he crouched and visually checked the outside of the suitcase for anything that might give him a clue to Jennifer Wilson and why she might have been a victim for the serial killer. A quick search showed him an owner's label with a phone number. He memorized the number and then stood slowly, leaving the case on the floor at his feet. He stared at it thoughtfully for several long, silent moments before shoving it behind the black leather armchair, standing quickly to retreat across the sitting room. He intended to flop onto a dark leather-upholstered couch against one wall, hoping that if the case were out of sight, perhaps he would be able to resist the temptation to open it and look for more clues about Jennifer Wilson as a person. He needed to apologize to John Watson for abandoning him before he got wrapped up in picking apart Jennifer Wilson's possessions. His duties to his charge were more important than any mystery.

 When Sherlock turned to move across the sitting room, though, he nearly collided with the imperiously glaring form of Mycroft. He could not stop his wings from flinging wide, a sound like the rush of a bedsheet being flapped filling the room for a moment.

 "Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was as cold as his expression and Sherlock bit back on his immediate desire to mouth off. Mycroft was right to be angry with him; he had abandoned his charge to run off on an unrelated adventure.

 "It won't happen again."

 "Isn't that the same thing you said when you were assigned to Francis Hudson?" Mycroft leaned his weight forward onto an umbrella clutched in one hand, his slim fingers resting on the hand grip as the point dug into the large rug that covered the sitting room floor. The umbrella was something that Mycroft seemed to favor whenever he wasn't ensconced behind his desk in his overbearing and intimidating office. It was as much a part of the Guardian Angel's look as his bespoke suit, perfectly smooth hair, and hooked nose.

 "It is. But compared to Francis Hudson, John Watson is much more important -"

 "Sherlock!" The word was full of recrimination and Sherlock grimaced faintly. Guardian Angels were not meant to form attachments to their charges beyond that of a guard and guide. To imply favoritism was to break away from everything that a Guardian Angel was meant to hold to when guarding a human life. He had been startled by Mycroft's sudden appearance and now he had said too much. Time to get himself under control.

 "I will be more circumspect in the future," Sherlock promised, drawing his wings in tightly as the shock of seeing Mycroft in John Watson's sitting room slowly dissipated and Sherlock was able to get hold of his emotions once more. "I will ensure that John Watson is well guided and guarded against possible failures in his path and I will devote myself to my duty."

 "I am risking my own reputation in this, Sherlock. I have spoken for you not once but twice: I recommended the conclusion of your furlough from duty and I spoke for you when you did a Healing on John Watson to prevent his suicide from being permanent. If you are going to repay me by shirking your duties and abandoning your charge to run off chasing your ridiculous mysteries -"

 "I _won't_." Sherlock's voice was firm and he locked his eyes onto Mycroft's, trying to convince his garrison commander with the force of his gaze alone. "I will stand beside John Watson until such a time as he is firmly returned to his predestined path."

 "See that you do. I will be keeping an eye on the situation, and should you abandon Dr. John Watson again, I will transfer his care permanently to Victor. Perhaps another Guardian Angel will be able to control themselves in a Seeming better than what you manage." Mycroft raised his eyebrows slightly, tipping his head back to glare down his nose at Sherlock. "Good evening."

 Mycroft popped out of existence in an instant, leaving Sherlock once again alone in the sitting room. With a sigh, he walked heavily across the sitting room to his original intended destination: the grey leather sitting room sofa. He had quite a bit of thinking that he needed to do, and he always thought best if he were able to utterly relax his body and let his mind wander.

 Laying down on his back on the comfortable sofa was not without difficulty; his large wings were as tall as he was and would begin to hurt in almost no time if he twisted or compressed the feathers when he lay down. Sherlock shifted carefully, twitching until his wings were comfortably compressed between his back and the sofa cushions. He steepled his fingers under his chin, closed his eyes, and let his thoughts drift as he wandered through a variety of paths for how best to convince John Watson to get back on his preordained path and complete his role on Earth.

 He had no way of being sure exactly how much time had passed between his arrival at the flat and the heavy sound of John Watson limping up the stairs. He stayed in his thinking pose, keeping his eyes shut as he pulled his thoughts back to the here and now. He needed to apologize for leaving. He needed to let John Watson know that he was not going to let himself be distracted again.

 The sitting room door opened moments later and John Watson limped into the room. Sherlock listened to the heavy beat of John's feet and the staccato tap of his cane against the wooden floor as John approached the sofa, Sherlock keeping his eyes shut as he struggled to find the right words.

 "So. You left."

 There was no way of mistaking the hurt in John Watson's voice. Sherlock's eyes opened and focused on the man across the room, taking in the salt-and-wheat of his military-short hair and the weathered lines of his face. There was nothing on John's face that told Sherlock how hurt the man was, but it was obvious in his voice if you knew what to listen for. Having watched over John Watson for years, Sherlock knew exactly what to listen for, and the sound dug into the center of Sherlock's chest like a burr, twisting and aching.

 "I'm... sorry. I got excited. It was..."

 "Stupid?" John suggested, leaning heavily onto his cane. The word came out clipped and furious. "Idiotic? Short-sighted?"

 "What? Why?"

 "You went off looking for the murderer, didn't you?"

 "I went off looking for her _case!_ " Sherlock sat up abruptly, twisting his body to throw his legs off the side of the sofa and grimacing as the long flight feathers underneath his hips warped beneath him. He rose to his feet, wings ruffling and shivering behind him as he worked to ease the feathers back into place, moving a step closer to John Watson as he spoke. "Jennifer Wilson's suitcase? I knew that whoever had killed her must have taken her case and I knew that whoever it was would've abandoned it as soon as they realized they had it."

 "All right. So... you _weren't_ chasing after a murderer alone?" John sounded confused, his brow furrowing as he looked up at his Guardian Angel.

 "Of course, I wasn't. I can be damaged in this form; I'd never throw myself into danger unless _you_ were in immediate peril. My assignment is to guide and guard _you_."

 "But you left me. At the morgue. You left me there."

 "I got excited," Sherlock repeated, breaking eye contact to look down at the toes of his shoes for a second, noting absently the way the light from the lamp near the couch slanted across the leather. "It was... stupid, idiotic, short-sighted. Do you have your mobile?"

"I... my... what?" John stumbled over the words, his body going tight as the conversation took a sudden turn and left him unsure of what was happening.

 "Your mobile phone. I need to send a text."

 "Know a lot of people locally?" John muttered, the sarcasm in his voice obvious even to his distracted Guardian Angel. Sherlock sighed, taking the phone as soon as John had pulled it from his trouser pocket and held it out. John watched in silence as Sherlock began thumbing in a message, but as the seconds stretched on, the other man couldn't ignore his own curiosity. John cleared his throat before asking, "All right. What are you typing?"

 "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 Northumberland Street. Please come.'" Sherlock read the words out to John and then hit send, glancing up at the puzzled expression on John's face before passing the phone back over.

 Sherlock stepped across the sitting room, brushing past John Watson closely enough that he momentarily felt the warmth of the shorter man's body and the faintest shiver ran through him in response. Sherlock ignored the physical reaction to John Watson, grabbing one of the chairs from the sitting room table, spinning it and dropping it in front of the black leather armchair. He reached past the armchair to pull the pink suitcase out, dropping it heavily onto the chair before lowering himself onto the armchair. He unzipped it and flipped the top open, staring into the tightly packed interior.

 "That's... that's the pink lady's case. That's Jennifer Wilson's case." John moved over to stand near the case, staring down at it in clear shock.

 "Yes, obviously."

 "How did you get this?"

 "By looking." Sherlock said coolly. "I went to New Scotland Yard first to find the address of the building where they discovered Jennifer Wilson's body. It was an abandoned flophouse in Lauriston Gardens. The killer must have driven her there and could only have kept her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves - particularly a man, which is statistically more likely - so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink." The word was said in a tone of awe, John turning away from the suitcase to look up at Sherlock with wide eyes. "You got _all_ of that because you realized the case would be pink?"

 "Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously," Sherlock snapped, waving a dismissive hand at the conversation and then pointing at the case, his eyes locking on John Watson as he prompted, "Now, look. Do you see what's missing?"

 "From the case? How could I?"

 "Her phone. Where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one - that's her number there; I've just texted it." Sherlock flipped open the tiny luggage tag, showing John the handwritten information within.

 "Maybe she left it at home," John suggested, and Sherlock huffed softly.

 "She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She _never_ leaves her phone at home." Sherlock stared at John expectantly but his charge only stared back with a confused expression. "The question is, where is her phone _now?_ "

 "She could have lost it."

 "Yes, or...?" Sherlock knew he was leading John to the answer, but it was proving incredibly, frustratingly difficult. The normal human mind moved so terribly slowly; it was part of why it was so complicated to be a Guardian Angel to humans who strayed so completely from their intended paths.

 "The murderer... you think the murderer has the phone?" John's eyes went wide as he finally, slowly worked his way to the right answer, and Sherlock sighed silently in relief.

 "Maybe she left it when she left her case." Sherlock nodded slightly, proud of John Watson for making it to the obvious answer. "Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

 "Sorry, what are we doing?" John sounded lost and a little angry, his brow furrowing again. "Did you just text a murderer from my mobile? What good will _that_ do?"

 The question was punctuated by a trilling chime from John's mobile. He drew it out and glanced at the screen before holding it towards Sherlock. He read the words on the screen with great satisfaction: (withheld) calling

 "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just _found_ that phone, they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer..." He paused, both of them staring at John's mobile until the ringing cut off. "Would panic."

 Sherlock flipped the lid of the suitcase closed once more and rose from the armchair, materializing the Seeming of the heavy jacket he'd created earlier in the evening as he moved towards the sitting room door. He heard the heavy thump of John Watson moving after him, his cane clicking on the wooden floor as he trailed behind the Guardian Angel.

 "Have you talked to the police?" John's tone was sharp and expectant; Sherlock pressed his lips briefly in annoyance, feathers ruffling slightly in response to his charge's subtle accusation that Sherlock was somehow doing something _wrong_ by not taking this new information straight to the police... who had _not_ found the pink case, after all.

 "Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

 "So, why are you talking to _me?_ " John Watson demanded, and there was no mistaking the hurt that had crept back into his voice again. Sherlock turned back to the shorter man, frowning hard as he struggled to find the right words to explain to John Watson why he would take the time to explain things to him when he did not give the same considerations to other humans.

 "You're my charge. You're the most important thing in my life."

 "Is that why you were about to rush out the door and leave me behind again? Maybe you put your coat on a bit differently than I do, but it's still obvious when you're on your way out." John gestured with his free hand past Sherlock at the sitting room door and the Guardian Angel stiffened with affronted anger.

 "I wasn't leaving you. I thought you were coming with me."

 "Coming...? You never... you want me to come with you?" The anger had melted out of John's voice completely. Sherlock smiled at the shock that had replaced it, shaking his head slowly at John Watson as his own mild burst of anger melted away in the face of John Watson's surprise. What a strange thing for John Watson to be surprised at. Where else would his Guardian Angel want to be than at his side? The way human minds worked was a mystery to Sherlock, and John Watson's was the most mysterious of all.

 "You are my charge, John Watson. You are the most important thing. I intend you to be with me at all times. I made a mistake in rushing away from you earlier this evening, and it is something that I do not intend to happen again." Sherlock paused for a moment, pressing his lips together as he tried to think of the best way to appeal to John Watson's morals and ensure the two of them could go out hunting the serial killer that somehow forced his victims to chew poison. "Don't you want to help find the murderer and bring them to the attention of The Yard? Doesn't it appeal to your sense of justice?"

 John hesitated for a long moment, his dark blue eyes ticking back and forth across Sherlock's face from the other side of the sitting room. He shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably, the wooden floor creaking softly beneath him. John Watson opened his mouth without saying anything and then shut it again as his eyes remained locked on Sherlock, obviously looking for _something_ on his Guardian Angel's face. Sherlock wished he knew what expression John Watson needed to see to feel validated; Sherlock would make that expression at once if he knew what it were. Instead, they were locked in this uncomfortable, expectant silence as John Watson struggled with something and Sherlock waited to see how their evening was to play out. It was a struggle to keep his wings folded and not flap them with the growing impatience as he waited on his charge. Finally, though, John Watson nodded slowly. "Yeah. I would like to do that, yeah."

 "Then come with me, John Watson. Help me find this poor excuse for a human being. If you don't come with me, then we'll both be stuck sitting in the flat feeling annoyed, and that will help neither of us in our missions."

 Sherlock waited only long enough to watch John shift his weight forward as he prepared to follow after his Guardian Angel, and then Sherlock was rushing out the door and down the stairs with the heavy, uneven clump of John's steps behind him.


	8. Tracking the Truth

John followed the tall Guardian Angel out onto the street, watching in amazement as the glorious winged creature made his way through pedestrian traffic on the pavement with a single-mindedness that John found enviable. He rarely had that level of intense focus and had always been jealous of anyone who could manage it. Of course, from what he'd seen of Sherlock's amazing mind so far, it would have been surprising if the Angel _hadn't_ had the ability to focus absolutely on one problem to the exclusion of all else.

 John struggled to catch up to Sherlock, mentally deriding his leg for aching at the most inopportune moments. One could have assumed that it was the cooler evening air that was making it suddenly throb as he hopped and limped in an effort to catch Sherlock up, but John knew it wasn't true; there was no real pattern for the sudden aching in his leg. That was the main reason he had begun to suspect that the pain was completely psychosomatic rather than being a true subtle injury that had grown worse over time. His unpredictable and unreliable leg caused him a lot of mental anguish, but he had long since given up on ever solving the problem. After all, he had been planning to kill himself, so what was the use of focusing on a psychosomatic limp?

 When John managed to catch up to the longer-legged and faster moving Guardian Angel, he was panting. He caught his breath for a moment before finally asking the important question after their sudden rush from the flat. "Where, exactly, are we going?"

 "Northumberland Street's a five minute walk from here."

 It took John a moment to remember the text Sherlock had sent to the murderer and he gave a little disbelieving huff as he realized what Sherlock was implying. "You think he's stupid enough to go there?"

 "No, I think he's _brilliant_ enough. I love the brilliant ones - they're always so desperate to get caught." Sherlock rushed across a street during a break in traffic and John hurried after him, cane thumping across the pavement as he held up an apologetic and quelling hand towards the oncoming cars that had slowed to avoid plowing into him.

 "Why?" John asked as soon as they were out of immediate danger.

 "Appreciation. Applause! At long last, the spotlight. That's the frailty of genius, John Watson: it needs an audience."

 John gave Sherlock a very pointed look, but the Guardian Angel was not looking back at his human charge and completely missed the irony of his words.

 "So, is this something Guardian Angels do a lot?" John asked, falling into heavy, limping step next to Sherlock. "Is it common for them to go chasing after murderers?"

 Sherlock's step faltered and the tall Guardian Angel's wings spread slightly before pulling in tight to his body, something John had come to recognize in the last 12 hours as a sign of sudden discomfort in the Angel.

 "It's... not." Sherlock spoke slowly, his insubstantial wings like heavy shadows against the long line of his back, nearly indistinguishable from his ankle-length Belstaff coat in the darkness of the evening.

 "Oh. Then... this is a personal project for you?" John dodged around a couple arm-in-arm as he tried to keep up with Sherlock. It was ridiculous how smoothly the Angel moved along the crowded pavement, sliding through gaps and around groups without a single misstep while John stumbled along grimacing apologies at everyone he nudged or disrupted with his heavy, limping movements.

 "I've always had an... unusual mind. My garrison commander in the Heavenly Realms has encouraged my curiosity and brilliance, as long as it didn't take away from my assigned charges. Unfortunately, I have noticed that I tend to become much more easily distracted by puzzles and mysteries when in a physical Seeming."

 "You've said that before... a 'Seeming'? What is that?"

 "This." Sherlock gestured at himself. "This body, these clothes... none of it is exactly _real_. I'm not tethered to a physical body in the same way you are. I can step in and out of this form as you would step in and out of a set of clothes. It is a physical representation that allows me to interact on the human plane with the desired goal of influencing your choices directly and returning you to your path."

 "No, but... it's real. I mean..." John paused to huff softly before reaching out to flick a forefinger lightly against the cuff of one of the heavy wool Belstaff coat's sleeves, raising his eyebrows at the soft thud his nail made against the sleeve.

 "It's as real as I believe it to be," Sherlock corrected, giving a small shake of his arm as if to resettle the cuff after John's flick. "As long as I believe in my physicality, it exists. But, I don't need sleep or food to recharge my body the way a human would."

 John shook his head slightly, marveling at the impossibility of it. Everything Sherlock said sounded utterly ridiculous, but he needed only to look over at the man to see the truth of the situation: Sherlock was not a 'man' in the traditional sense. His otherworldly beauty and the shadowy wings rising from his back were all the indications John truly needed to let him know that Sherlock was most decidedly not human. The fact that he apparently didn't need to eat or sleep were unsurprising in the face of Sherlock's much more obvious Angelic attributes.

 It was surprising to John, after Sherlock's admission of not needing to take in calories to survive, that the Angel crossed the street once more to move unerringly towards the front door of a small and homey-looking Italian restaurant.

 "I thought you didn't need to eat?" John asked in a low murmur as he followed Sherlock through the front door into the restaurant and, at a gesture from a waiter, towards a table that overlooked the street they'd just been walking down. The scents of oregano and the richness of good tomato sauce wafted through the air and John's stomach twisted in a pang of hunger. He couldn't imagine why Sherlock would have brought them here if eating wasn't on the agenda. John slid into the booth opposite Sherlock, throwing a glance over his shoulder out the large front window at the people passing on the street outside.

 "I don't." Sherlock twisted inclemently so his wings weren't trapped between his body and the back of the booth's seat and then inclined his head slightly, indicating the building across the street from them. "That's 22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

 John blew out a soft breath as he realized why Sherlock had chosen this particular restaurant at which to wait. "He isn't just going to ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

 "He _has_ killed four people."

 John paused and then surrendered, realizing that the Guardian Angel was right. "Okay."

 "Sherlock!" The voice hailing John's Angel was hearty and held a note of warm familiarity. John looked up as a bearded, broadly smiling, heavy-set man hustled up to their table and clapped a familiar hand onto Sherlock's back before then offering his hand to Sherlock to be shaken. After a slight pause, Sherlock took the man's hand and was given the most thorough and enthusiastic handshake that John had ever witnessed. He followed the greeting up by dropping a menu on the table in front of John and giving him a wide smile. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house, for you and your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked, nudging the menu in front of John slightly closer to his charge.

"I'm not his date." John was quick to correct the enthusiastic stranger. He'd gain nothing but frustration if people misinterpreted his relationship to the Guardian Angel. It was one thing to suffer through his unrequited attraction to Sherlock until the Angel inevitably returned to his usual incorporeal existence. To have people giving him expectant looks and knowing winks every time they were out in public together would be like rubbing lemon juice into a paper cut.

 "He your Angel?" The man smiled at John before turning to look at Sherlock. "He was my Angel for awhile. Got me off a murder charge!"

"This is Angelo." Sherlock was looking out the window again, indifferent to the fond enthusiasm in the restaurateur's voice. Angelo held his hand out to John and John found himself being subjected to the same through handshake that Sherlock had gone through when Angelo first approached the table. "Three years ago, I was able to ensure that the police found evidence which proved that during a particularly vicious triple murder, Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."

 "He cleared my name!" Angelo's enthusiasm was boundless, it seemed, and John sat back in amazement, staring up at the man with his mouth hanging just slightly open.

 "I cleared it a _bit_."

 "And got me back on my path. Own this restaurant now!" Angelo gestured around the comfortably dim interior with obvious pride, and John had to admit that the life of a restaurateur definitely sounded much better for both Angelo and all of humanity than a life spent house-breaking. He tossed a quick glance at Sherlock, who was giving a faint smile to Angelo as if pleased with what he'd been able to accomplish.

 "Anything happening opposite?"

 Angelo tossed a look out the window at John's back before turning back to the Guardian Angel. "Nothing." Angelo's smile reappeared as he looked over at John, nodding his head towards Sherlock. "For this man, I'd have gone to prison."

 "You _did_ go to prison." Sherlock's voice was a low murmur, but his wings had given a little shiver and the feathers had fluffed slightly. John had to assume the gesture was one of pride. Obviously, Angelo had served his time for the crimes he committed and had gotten his life straightened out, and if the somewhat convoluted story John was getting from the two of them was completely factual, it had been Sherlock's doing that kept Angelo from a life of thievery and lies. Slowly, John was getting a more complete picture of Sherlock's involvement in the lives of humans and he was beginning to think that perhaps his own life would soon be much more tolerable, even if Sherlock went back to his incorporeal existence.

 "Haven't seen him since then." Angelo swiped at the clean tabletop with a rag he'd pulled from a belt loop, his eyes sliding from Sherlock to John as his expression grew thoughtful. "He's been your Angel for awhile, yeah? I can tell. You both look so comfortable together, very familiar."

 "No, just... I've known a few hours." John offered the correction in an off-handed murmur, his attention caught by the menu in front of him. His growing hunger was beginning to distract him and the variety of classic Italian dishes listed on the menu were occupying most of his thoughts.

 "Really?" The surprise in Angelo's voice filtered through dimly, and out of the corner of his eyes, John noticed the restaurateur glancing between himself and Sherlock again. "Well, I'll get a candle for the table; it's more romantic."

 Angelo was already hustling away before the words registered and John looked towards the man a little frantically, calling after him, "I'm not his date!"

 "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait." Sherlock tapped the menu in front of John with one long, slim finger and John surrendered, raising it to finish deciding on what meal he would order. It was late, and he'd been hungry before he'd been called to the morgue. It had been several hours since he'd moved his things into the new flat, and he hadn't had a chance to refuel. If they were going to be sitting in the restaurant for awhile pretending to be patrons so they could keep an eye out for the murderer, eating would certainly lend credence to their cover.

 Fifteen minutes later, his mouth full of some of the most excellent manicotti he'd ever had, John had to admit that he was happy to provide a thorough and believable cover for them if it meant he got to eat a free meal that was this delicious.

 After a minute, he set his fork down and took a sip of water, meeting Sherlock's gaze. The Guardian Angel had been watching him with a kind of subtle intensity that John should have found intimidating or off-putting, but somehow it didn't bother him at all.

 "So, no eating and no sleeping. Is there anything else you don't do?"

 Sherlock frowned slightly, obviously not following, and John hastened to offer some examples.

 "Bathe? Drink tea? Uh... use the loo? Bleed?"

 "Ah." Sherlock rested his hands on the tabletop, running his fingertips through a tiny puddle of condensation at the base of the completely unnecessary glass of water the waiter had set before him. "I neither eat or drink, so I don't take tea. If necessary to maintain my cover as a normal human, I can pretend in social situations. Since I take nothing in, I don't need a toilet. I can get dirt on me, but since this physical body is only as real as I believe it to be, I choose not to believe in normal bodily bacteria so I don't require bathing."

 John gave a jealous little huff; on the one hand, never taking a warm shower after a long day to relax and unwind would be unpleasant. But never _needing_ to take a shower because you smelled like a rubbish tip would be a major perk.

 "I can bleed, however. I can be injured. Accepting a physical form comes with its own limitations. You can see my wings, but they won't work as long as I have the Seeming of a physical body on. To utilize them, I would have to be incorporeal. In the same way, if someone pointed a gun at me and fired and I did not drop my Seeming, I would take injury from it. This Seeming can even be killed, if the injury is grievous enough. Much like a human body, though, the Seeming is not _me_ and I would continue beyond the death of it."

 John was silent as he considered the implications of Sherlock's words, carefully cutting one of the rich, puffy manicottis in half before lifting a bite on his fork. He chewed as he considered what it meant to be able to die but not be able to enjoy a hot cup of tea on a cold day or have a relaxing wank before bed or eat a rich, decadent cake as a special treat. Maybe Sherlock _didn't_ have it that great, all things considered.

 And it did somewhat put to rest the niggling question at the back of John's mind: as gorgeous as his Guardian Angel was, it was impossible for John to not think of sex. Obviously, that particular path was firmly closed off. A man who didn't need a loo almost certainly didn't need an orgasm. John filed that information away with a little regret and a long swallow of water to help wash it down. It was for the best, really; carrying on with the hopeless crush would no doubt cause both him and Sherlock uncountable difficulties as the Angel tried to put John back on his path. It was _good_ that Sherlock was beyond reach.

 "Look across the street. Taxi." Sherlock's voice was low and intense and it pulled John right out of his thoughts. As soon as the words registered, John was twisting in his seat to look out the large front window of the restaurant, his heart rate picking up at the idea that the murderer could be just across the street from them. It didn't take him more than a second to spot the taxi cab idling at the kerb. "Stopped. Nobody getting in and nobody getting out." Sherlock's voice dropped to a low murmur as if he were talking to himself. "Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. _Is_ it clever? _Why_ is it clever?"

 "That's him?" John shifted a bit, trying to get a clearer view of the person or persons inside the idling cab.

 "Don't stare."

 John twisted back to look at Sherlock, frowning. " _You're_ staring."

 "We can't _both_ stare." The words were scarcely out of his mouth before Sherlock was sliding out of the booth and grabbing the Belstaff coat he'd laid to one side, shrugging into it even as he was rushing towards the door of the restaurant. John had to move quickly, reaching for his own jacket as he simultaneously slid out of the booth and pushed to his feet, barely catching up to his Guardian Angel as Sherlock belted through the door.

 On the pavement outside the restaurant, Sherlock paused for a moment as John pushed through the door in pursuit of his escaping Angel. Across the street, someone in the backseat of the cab twisted to look across at the restaurant and John could almost swear the man met his eyes for the briefest moment before he turned forward again. As soon as his back was presented to them, the cab pulled away from the kerb and accelerated.

 John had only a moment to wonder if he'd just met the eyes of a serial killer before Sherlock was bolting into the street, barely avoiding being run over by an oncoming car. The car slammed on its brakes and the tall Angel managed to turn the near-accident into a smooth slide across the bonnet of the car, his shoes thumping down onto the street on the opposite side of the stopped car. John rushed after him, dodging around the front bumper of the car and raising a hand in apology to the driver as he ran down the street to join his Angel in the spot where the cab had been idling.

 "I've got the cab number!" John thumped to a stop next to Sherlock, his shoes meeting the pavement with satisfyingly final smacks. They would be able to give the cab number to the police and the cab would be intercepted. He felt a thrill of pride at his role in potentially bringing a murderer to justice.

 "Good for you." Sherlock sounded completely dismissive and John glanced over, confused, to see the Angel muttering to himself in a rapid-fire, low tone, eyes squeezed shut as if he were thinking. John was about to ask what Sherlock was doing when Sherlock broke into a run again, zipping down the block. With a sigh of resignation, John took off after him, shoes slapping against the pavement as he followed after his insane Guardian Angel.

 


	9. Getting Inside

Sherlock had long ago memorized the streets of many of the cities in which he'd been an active Guardian Angel. Thankfully, John Watson was not his first charge to live in London, and Sherlock was suddenly very glad for the mental map he'd held onto for so many years. He had watched the direction in which the cab was heading and knew the back alleys and fire escapes that would allow him to intercept the cab roughly a mile further on if they only moved fast enough. Obviously, the simplest fix would have been to drop his Seeming and put himself precisely where he needed to be to meet the taxi cab... but he could not leave John Watson. Not again. Not only would Mycroft almost certainly be monitoring him, but Sherlock would not be able to stand himself if he left behind his human charge twice in one evening. He would keep his physical Seeming. He could only hope that John Watson would be able to keep up.

 He pounded into the building just up the street from them and was reassured to hear John Watson's heavy, panting breaths catching up behind him as they rushed up a set of stairs towards the roof of the building. The office building next door was low enough that they should be able to easily jump from roof to roof, barring a stumble or a sudden panic attack at the edge of the roof. Sherlock had faith in his human charge, though; John was not the panicking type.

 "Come on, John," he called encouragingly, torn between wanting to catch up with the murderer and not wanting to leave his charge behind. It would have been easier, Sherlock admitted to himself, if he could drop his Seeming and pop into existence just ahead of the cab... but he had promised both himself and Mycroft that he would not be shirking his duties as a Guardian Angel again. He absolutely _had_ to put the temptation from his mind. So, he took the slower path, thundering across the roof of the building with gravel scattering away from each heavy thump of his feet, jumping over a protective railing meant to keep people from tumbling unknowingly off the roof's edge, and throwing himself across the gap to the lower roof of the building next door.

 When he didn't hear John's feet landing on the rooftop behind him, he threw a glance over his shoulder. The shorter man was hesitating, obviously unsure of his ability to jump the gap, and Sherlock pressed his lips in frustration as he imagined the cab pulling further and further away.

 "Come _on,_ John, we're losing him!"

 Sherlock watched only long enough to see John back up and begin a running leap before he turned to rush away. He hadn't taken a step, though, when he heard a hesitation in John's steps as John went to leap across the gap. Sherlock did not need his omniscience to realize there was a problem; John's hesitation just before the leap told him everything he needed to know. Regardless, the omniscience burst over him in a desperate and almost painful wave of knowledge.

  _'John Watson is in danger.'_

 Sherlock dropped his Seeming and crossed the distance between himself and John in a fraction of a second, his physical form falling around him with a shudder as he threw himself towards John, arms reaching out even as the understanding that he'd leaped too short washed over John Watson's face, the man's eyes going wide and horrified as it became obvious that his slight hesitation on the edge of the roof was going to make him miss the edge of the next building's roof.

 Sherlock took handfuls of John's shirt and jacket, jerking his charge  towards him fueled with the power of desperation. He nearly pulled John onto the roof with him, the toes of John's shoes slamming into the lip of the roof's edge stones as Sherlock pulled him away from danger.

Sherlock managed to wind one arm around John's chest and hefted, pulling John the rest of the way onto the roof. There was a moment's hesitation where he was breathing the scent of John Watson's shampoo and aftershave, a bright citrus-and-vanilla scent that made Sherlock see explosions of gold behind the eyelids he'd closed in relief when his hands caught hold of John's clothes, and feeling the warmth of John Watson against him in a long, taut line that pressed from chest to knee, and then he stepped back from his charge, the desire to complete the chase over-riding the desire to enjoy the brief and unexpected intimacy with John.

"Hurry, John; we can still catch him." The words were slightly breathless, and Sherlock attributed it to the panic of nearly losing his charge. He did not give more than a second's attention to the idea that it had been the nearness of John and not the nearness of John's death that had squeezed the breath from his chest and left his heart thundering.

 Sherlock broke into a run, aiming for a rusty metal fire escape he knew was on the far side of the building. He heard the heavy thump of John's steps on the rooftop behind him as the man raced to catch back up with Sherlock.

 The alley they dropped into once they leaped from the last step of the fire escape was absolutely stinking of the mingled odors of rubbish and piss and Sherlock wished again for the ability to drop his Seeming and escape the oppressive scents. Instead, he threw himself towards the mouth of the alley, knowing that the taxi cab would be reaching that point in only moments.

 But the taxi cab was already sailing past the mouth of the alley, too far ahead for Sherlock to possibly catch it while still in the Seeming of a human, and he released an angry shout, his wings spreading as wide as the narrow alley would allow in his sudden rush of consternation. "Ah, no!"

 He put on a burst of speed, shooting from the mouth of the alley and turning to the right, heading away from the taxi cab. He could still intercept it, but if he tried to chase after it, he'd only exhaust both himself and John Watson and lose the cab. "This way!"

 Behind him, he heard John's footsteps rushing from the alley and onto the street and then turning after the cab. Sherlock felt a rush of frustration that he might have to chase his charge down and would lose any hope of catching the taxi cab and shouted back after John's retreating form, "No, _this_ way!"

 "Sorry!" John shouted, and his running steps came after Sherlock once more, thumping down the street and through yet another alley - thankfully not nearly as stinking as the last one had been - before they popped out onto a street just in front of the taxi cab. The cab's brakes shrieked as the driver tried to avoid flattening Sherlock. Sherlock caught the briefest impression of wide, startled eyes behind spectacles perched on the pale face of the cab driver before he was reaching into his coat pocket, mentally reaching beyond the confines of the Seeming of his overcoat and finding exactly what he needed in a police precinct some five miles away. He pulled his hand from his pocket with the police ID he'd just borrowed from an officer's pocket while the man had been relaxing at his desk. There were some very real benefits to being able to move beyond the physical world, although he had never used that ability before in _this_ way. He hoped Mycroft would not mind the small white lie he was about to tell; while lying was not exactly prohibited for the Guardian Angels and was in fact sometimes absolutely necessary for them to complete their assigned tasks, Guardian Angels were encouraged to find ways to use the truth to their advantage whenever possible.

 "Police! Open her up!" Sherlock shouted, trying to imitate the cadence and official tone of the police officer he'd been assigned to as a guide in the 1920s. He heard John's heavy footfalls thumping to a halt behind him as the man finally caught up and John's heavy, wheezing pants as the other man tried to catch his breath after the long run. Sherlock jerked open the door at the back of the cab and felt a surge of disappointment as he took in the worried, confused expression of the man in the backseat. He pulled his wings tightly against his back, eyes sweeping up and down the passenger's face and clothes, picking up the signs of just how wrong he had been in his assessment that this man was the murderer. "No. Teeth, tan... what - Californian?"

 A quick glance at the luggage tag on the case at the man's feet in the floorboard of the backseat told Sherlock all he needed to know and he spun away in disgust, looking over at the exhausted and ruffled John Watson, explaining his evaluation of who the man was. "LA. Santa Monica. Just arrived."

 "How can you _possibly_ know that?" John demanded in between panting breaths, his expression disbelieving.

 "The luggage." Sherlock nodded his head down towards the suitcase at the man's feet. He looked back up at the passenger in the backseat, giving him another once-over. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

 "Sorry, are you guys the police?" The man in the back sounded as confused as he looked, his eyes darting between John and Sherlock with slowly rising doubt in them.

 "Yeah." Sherlock lifted the borrowed police officer's badge, flashing it towards the passenger quickly. "Everything all right?"

 The man smiled, his eyes still confused and doubtful. "Yeah."

 Sherlock pasted a fake smile onto his face, nodding towards the man briefly. "Welcome to London," he said and then turned, walking away from the taxi cab as frustration momentarily overwhelmed him. He had been wrong. Somehow, he had read the signs incorrectly and they had wasted a good portion of their evening chasing after an American on holiday. Behind him, he heard John speaking to the passenger and he twisted slightly to listen.

 "Er... any problems, just let us know."

 Sherlock stifled a laugh, pleased that John had tried to play along with Sherlock's falsehood. The man was a quick study.

 John shut the cab door and walked over to Sherlock, still breathing a bit heavily from the protracted chase after the wrong man. He stood next to the Guardian Angel, glancing over towards the idling cab.

 "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down." John sounded amused and Sherlock stiffened slightly, his pride slightly hurt.

 "Basically."

 "Not the murderer," John pressed and Sherlock sighed under his breath.

 " _Not_ the murderer, no."

 "Wrong country... good alibi." John grinned up at the tall Angel and Sherlock felt his annoyance melt away in the face of John's smile, amusement slowly bubbling up inside him as he realized how ridiculous the entire chase had been in light of his erroneous deductions.

 "As they go," Sherlock agreed, glancing around the busy street at the passing foot traffic. Thankfully, their assault on the taxi cab hadn't drawn much attention; no one was watching them now, anyway, and if people had been watching them before, they had obviously decided the excitement was over and moved on.

 After a silent moment, John gave a quick giggle, turning slightly to take in the idling cab again.

 "What?" Sherlock turned to look down at his charge, curious as to what had suddenly brought forth the wave of laughter.

 "Nothing. Just... 'welcome to London.'"

 Sherlock snorted out a soft laugh; it had been an utterly ridiculous thing to say. Unfortunately, he realized their moment of laughter wasn't going to last: an actual police officer had finally noticed the cab stopped in the middle of the street and had gone over to investigate. The passenger was standing outside the cab and pointing down the block towards John and Sherlock as he spoke. John noticed the potential problem and glanced over at Sherlock.

 "Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked.

 "Ready when you are."

 Sherlock broke into a run, heading away from the taxi cab and the police officer, the sound of John's footsteps just behind him. Sherlock kept them moving at a jog most of the way back to the flat, taking the time now that the seeming life-or-death chase was over to enjoy the unfaltering sound of John's running footsteps behind him. He had been wondering how to break it to his charge that his limp was entirely psychosomatic; a chase after a mistaken murderer through the nighttime streets of London had not been in his plans, but it had certainly worked to prove his point. They slowed only once, and during the pause, Sherlock borrowed John's mobile to send a text.

 "Who on Earth could you be texting?" John asked, his breath fogging in the cooling night air. "Are you texting the murderer again? And why do you keep taking my mobile? Don't you have one?"

 "Obviously not." Sherlock finished tapping in his message and turned the screen off before offering the mobile to John Watson once more.

 "We'll have to change that; you can't just keep stealing my mobile every time you want to text someone or look something up." John took the offered phone back, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

 "And why not? It's worked for us so far."

 "Because it's my mobile!" John paused, clearing his throat before continuing. "And, anyway, you should have one of your own. It would help with your cover as a normal bloke."

 "Mm. I wouldn't mind having one for the duration of my assignment in this Seeming. They weren't nearly as necessary the last time I was in a physical form." Sherlock glanced around the street; it was quiet and no one was watching them, but he enjoyed making John Watson use his two fully functional legs. "Let's go."

 He broke into a jog again and, after John gave a soft sigh of complaint, he heard his charge running to catch him up.

 John was panting again by the time they reached the flat and Sherlock enjoyed the knowledge that John was winded from running on two healthy legs. The two men collapsed side-by-side against the wall in the front entryway with their shoulders nearly brushing, not even bothering to venture up the stairs to their second storey flat yet. Sherlock pulled his wings in tight to his back, trying to avoid crushing them too hard between his back and the wall. John was gasping, but there was a faint smile ticking at the edges of his lips.

 "Okay, that was ridiculous. That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John admitted, the words broken up by rough, panting breaths.

 "And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock murmured, eliciting a series of high pitched, slightly hysterical giggles from his charge. Sherlock joined in after a moment, his lower tones weaving through John's laughter for a few seconds.

 "That wasn't just me." John paused, letting himself catch his breath a bit before his face twisted slightly, a question evident in his expression. "Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

 Sherlock raised one hand to wave it dismissively at John's query. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

 "So... what were we doing there?" John sounded puzzled, and Sherlock smiled. He tipped his head slightly; through the thin front door, he'd just heard the sound of familiar, heavy footsteps coming up the pavement towards the flat.

 "Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point."

 "What point?" John glanced up at Sherlock, his eyebrows drawing low over his eyes as the confusion in his voice finally bled out onto his face.

 "You."

 The knock at the front door came just after Sherlock spoke the single word, perfectly punctuating his statement and giving it the right edge of omniscience, although Sherlock had not used his ability to look into the future to know that the knock at the door would come just then. It had been a simple matter of listening to the sound of people passing on the pavement outside, recognizing a particular rhythm of steps, and knowing how long it would take the person outside the flat to mount the front steps and knock on the door. It wasn't omniscience; it was just simple awareness.

 John hesitated, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock before moving past the Guardian Angel and towards the front door to open it. Sherlock watched John's back tighten when John saw who was waiting on the front steps, his surprise obvious even from behind. Sherlock smiled as he heard the cheerful voice of Angelo, the owner of the Italian restaurant he and John had been at just hours before.

 "Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this."

 "Ah." John's voice was blank with surprise. "Er, thank you. Thank you."

 John turned away from the front door, shutting it behind him as he gave Sherlock a surprised look, eyebrows raised as he lifted his forgotten cane in one hand. Sherlock shrugged lightly.

 "I knew the limp was psychosomatic from the very first time I watched you moving with your cane. The only question in my mind was how to make you understand the same thing without wounding your pride. I didn't plan the chase as a way to make you realize your leg was perfectly sound; that was an unintended perk. Anyway, now you can throw the cane out."

 "Yeah, I suppose so." John shook his head, his expression bemused as he glanced down at the forgotten cane in his hand and then back up at his Guardian Angel. "I suppose I can, yeah."

 "Tea?" Sherlock straightened up from the wall and turned in preparation of heading up to John Watson's flat. He wasn't entirely sure of the best course of action after a chase through the back alleys and streets of London in pursuit of the wrong person, but he knew John was fond of tea; he'd watched the man drink it multiple times a day throughout his years of guardianship. Perhaps the familiarity of the drink would help ease John through the last few confusing moments of his first day with a physical Guardian Angel.

 "Yeah, sure." John leaned the cane against the wall in the front entryway just under the coat hooks on the wall, moving towards Sherlock. The heavy knock at the front door made them both stop and Sherlock frowned slightly; he'd been so focused on John Watson, he hadn't been paying attention to the sounds in the street any longer. Angelo had come and gone, so it hadn't seemed important for Sherlock to devote any more attention to the foot traffic outside 221. John took in Sherlock's puzzled expression and turned back to the front door.

 This time, Sherlock stepped up close behind John Watson, just as curious as his charge as to who could be knocking on the door this late in the evening. Detective Inspector Lestrade was the last person Sherlock would have predicted to be on the other side of the door, and he heard John's quick intake of breath before he said, "Greg. Hi."

 "John. You're a hard man to track down. Had to wake your old landlord to find out you'd moved and to get your forwarding address. Can I come in?"

 "I... sure, yeah. Sure." John stepped back, bumping into Sherlock behind him. The Guardian Angel made a faint sound of annoyance before moving further into the entryway and clearing a path for John and Lestrade. He did not miss the way the DI's eyes locked onto him with open curiosity and a touch of suspicion.

 "Which flat is yours?" Lestrade asked, glancing up towards the second floor and then back down towards Mrs. Hudson's closed door. John cleared his throat and then gestured up the stairs, his expression still blank with surprise. Obviously, Lestrade was not a frequent visitor to John Watson's home. Sherlock once more cursed the Council of Guardian Angels for their decision to pull him off of John Watson's case for six months, leaving him floundering in the basic day-to-day minutiae of his charge's life.

 Lestrade was bustling up the stairs and John threw a quick look at Sherlock, his brow furrowing for just a moment before he was hurrying after the DI. As Lestrade opened the door into the sitting room, Sherlock suddenly remembered the pink suitcase sitting on the chair in the middle of the sitting room and his eyes went wide.

 He heard Lestrade's soft curse, John's low groan, and then Sherlock was rushing up the stairs to the flat.

 "I found that," he said as he burst into the sitting room. Lestrade's hands were propped on his hips as he stared down at the pink case, and he glanced up at Sherlock's words, his eyes slightly narrowed as he took in the Guardian Angel where he stood in the sitting room doorway.

 "He did, you know." John spoke quickly, moving closer to Lestrade and drawing the DI's eyes off of Sherlock. "He figured out that the murderer would have had to've driven Jennifer Wilson to the scene of the murder and that if she didn't have her case, it must have still been with the murderer. He checked all the back alleys and side streets to find where the murderer would have been able to get rid of it unseen."

 "And how did he know where the murder had taken place?" Lestrade's voice was low and dangerous. John's mouth opened and then slowly shut; he could not answer that. He turned to look at Sherlock, his expression pained.

 "I saw a file." Sherlock tipped his chin up slightly, keeping his expression neutral. His mind ran through the possibilities of telling the truth - that he'd sneaked into The Yard and read through a private file - or a white lie. It took not even a second to decide the small lie would be safer; he had to hope the Council of Guardian Angels would excuse how many of them he was running through that evening.  "I was hoping to get into New Scotland Yard and overhear something, but I bumped into a man and woman coming out of the building together and she dropped a file. I helped her pick the papers up and saw they were about Jennifer Wilson's murder. I saw the address and went there."

 "A man and a woman?" Lestrade sounded doubtful.

 "The woman had extremely curly hair, full lips, and dark skin. The man had a very sharp nose and an even sharper voice."

 "Sally." The word was almost a sigh and Lestrade raised a hand to rub at his eyes. "And Anderson. Leaving together?"

 "It seemed so, yes."

 "She _knows_ better... no, forget it." Lestrade waved one hand in a sharp chopping motion, cutting off his own thought as he looked back down at the suitcase again. "All right. You found it. You figured out that the suitcase existed... and then you found it. I'll admit, that's pretty impressive."

 "Thank you."

 "I'll also admit - although these words will _never_ leave this room, is that clear?" Lestrade paused, glaring from under heavy eyebrows as both Sherlock and John nodded their agreement, and then continued. "I'll _also_ admit that we have no leads on these murders. We are at a loss and have been since the very first one. In fact, we weren't even sure they _were_ murders until you pointed out the obvious evidence that we'd been missing. So... if you can make any more brilliant guesses, we could use the help."

 "They aren't _guesses_." Sherlock frowned, shifting from foot to foot and spreading his wings slightly. "I pay attention to the details most people ignore and deduce the truth from the clues."

 "Sherlock." John's voice held the faintest note of warning and Sherlock closed his mouth quickly, realizing that he was being unnecessarily antagonistic to the DI. Sherlock drew a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled slowly before speaking again.

 "It would help if I had more information on Jennifer Wilson's murder," he said, keeping his voice soft. Lestrade raised a single eyebrow before reaching into his coat, pulling out a file folder that had been tucked inside.

 "I brought it with me on the off chance that you were as brilliant as John said. Here." He held the file out and Sherlock grabbed at it, spinning away to pull out one of the chairs at the sitting room table. He slid into the chair and dropped the file onto the table, flipping it open and reading through the information greedily. He heard John's soft steps approaching and felt warmth on his back as John leaned close, reading over Sherlock's shoulder. Immediately, Sherlock felt his pulse speed in response, nostrils flaring to try and catch the scent of aftershave and shampoo that he had picked up earlier. Annoyance flared in his chest just behind the elation of having John Watson so close; he _could not_ keep reacting this way. It was absolutely ridiculous to be so excited by the nearness of his charge, no matter _what_ the man smelled like or how pleasant the warmth exuding from his body was against Sherlock's shoulders.

 Mouth dry and heart still thundering in his chest, Sherlock forced his attention to the typed words on the pages in front of him. The case file was as dry as Sherlock had expected it to be, most of the details that he had managed to pick out from her clothes and hair missing from the police report. There was one thing that caught his attention: as she had been dying, she had used the fingernails of one hand to scratch a single word into the old wood flooring beneath her.

 "Rache?" Sherlock asked, glancing up at Lestrade.

 "We have no idea," Lestrade admitted. "We think maybe it's German for -"

 "No." Sherlock cut him off, giving a tiny shake of his head. "It's 'Rachel.'"

 "She was writing ' _Rachel'?_ " Lestrade sounded doubtful.

 "No, she was leaving an angry note in German." The words snapped out of Sherlock before he could stop them and he sighed softly, pressing his lips together in consternation at himself. He had behaving very badly towards the DI, something he needed to stop at once if he had any hope of getting more details of the ongoing murders. It didn't help that John Watson was still standing unusually close, warmth radiating from him and into Sherlock. But Sherlock was ignoring that, wasn't he? He once again tempered his voice as he continued. "Of _course_ she was writing 'Rachel.' No other word it could be. You need to find out who Rachel is."

 Lestrade hesitated for a moment before reaching into the pocket of his trousers, pulling out his mobile phone. "All right. If you're sure... then I'll make some calls, see if I can get some people moving this late at night and get you an ID on who 'Rachel' might be."

 Lestrade nodded towards John and Sherlock and then headed out the sitting room door, already dialing someone on his mobile.


	10. The Opening Salvo

Sherlock was pacing the sitting room before the door had even closed behind Lestrade, his long legs eating the available floor space in only a few steps before he had to turn and pace back the way he'd just come. John watched his Guardian Angel for a moment before stepping past him to drop into the grey-and-red cloth upholstered armchair in front of the unlit fireplace, letting a heavy sigh slip from his mouth. The imagined pain in his leg might be gone, but that didn't change the fact that he'd just run across a good section of London, storming up and down fire escapes and jumping from rooftop to rooftop. He was exhausted, and while his Guardian Angel still had the energy to pace madly from place to place, John needed to engage in the very human occupation of resting. He'd woken up that morning, decided to kill himself, been pulled back from the brink of death, found out he had a Guardian Angel, moved to a new flat, assisted on the postmortem of a murder victim, and chased a potential murderer across London. It was more action than John had seen in months, and he was beginning to feel the creeping tendrils of exhaustion pulling subtly at him.

 Sherlock obviously had no such problems; he was pacing the sitting room with ever-increasing vigor, his hands gesturing at chest height as if he were giving a long monologue, although his mouth was pinched tightly shut and he wasn't looking at John. After several more agitated, jittery passes, Sherlock began speaking.

 "It obviously wasn't the passenger." Sherlock paused next to John in the armchair, bringing his hands up to chest height and making gestures in the air as if he were sorting through a pile of things. "But I _know_ Jennifer Wilson was dropped off by someone - there's no other explanation for it. Why else would she have left her case?" He pointed down at it, still resting on the seat of a wooden chair shoved next to Sherlock's black armchair. John wondered briefly if Lestrade would be calling in a team to take possession of the case; it was evidence, after all, in an ongoing investigation into four murders. Lestrade was also trying to track down the mysterious 'Rachel.' John shook his watch down from where it was covered by his sleeve, taking a quick glance at it and finding that the evening was well and truly night, nine o'clock long since come and gone. How late would he have to be up this evening? The idea made him pinch his lips tightly together in annoyance.

 "All right. Let's start canvassing all the men in London who own motorcars. Shouldn't take more than a few weeks, right?" John knew he was being sarcastic, but he couldn't help himself; he'd been up since 5am and the day was beginning to stretch out uncomfortably long. Really, he'd done enough for a single day at that point, hadn't he?

 "No, there's something important - something I'm missing." Sherlock was pacing again, his feet thumping over the wooden floor. John turned to watch him, his eyes inexorably drawn to the insubstantial, smoky darkness of the Angel's wings. The longest flight feathers dragged across the floor behind Sherlock with a soft whisper.

 "So. 'Rachel'?"

 Sherlock didn't even pause, sweeping past John in the armchair as he made another circuit of the room.

 "Obviously. The questions now are _who_ was Rachel and _why_ would Jennifer Wilson scratch the name into the floorboards as she was dying. It took effort; it would have hurt."

 "Well, hopefully Greg is able to find something out."

 "Greg?" Sherlock tossed a confused glance towards John as he passed by.

 "Lestrade."

 "Oh, right. Yes, it would be very helpful if the police were able to dig up some clue to help. They've been useless so far."

 John made a noise in the back of his throat, but he couldn't really argue with Sherlock; he knew as well as any Londoner that the NSY were completely baffled by the killings. There was nothing to connect one victim to the next other than the way they had died... unless, of course, you were Sherlock Holmes, the Guardian Angel who apparently saw everything and made the connections no one else seemed capable of making. John's confidence in the Guardian Angel was growing as each hour passed and Sherlock pulled off a new and unbelievable feat.

 John shifted in the armchair, twisting to look behind himself as Sherlock turned in front of the kitchen doorway to start back across the sitting room. "So... thanks. For earlier. My leg. The chase."

 "Mm? Oh. Of course."

 "Also thanks for not swanning off and leaving me alone again."

 Sherlock stopped abruptly, mouth pinching tightly as he stared at John. "That was... unfortunate. I lost myself in the excitement earlier and I won't do it again. _You_ are my priority, John Watson. Putting you firmly back on your path is more important than anything."

 "Even more important than Rachel?" John let a note of teasing into his voice, but Sherlock missed it. His eyes widened slightly and he moved over to stand beside John's chair, one hand resting on the back.

 "Much more important. If you want me to turn my back on this case, John Watson, I will do it." Sherlock crouched next to John's chair, his bright blue-green eyes searching John's face intensely as his voice dropped to a low, intimate murmur. "There is nothing on this Earth that can compete with you in importance to me."

 John cleared his throat, dragging his gaze away from Sherlock uncomfortably, whispering "Jesus" under his breath as he raised a hand to rub it across his face. The intensity on Sherlock's face and the intimacy in his voice had hit John like a physical punch to his gut. How long had it been since someone had gotten that close to him, spoken so softly and stared so hard into his eyes? It must have been back before he'd been invalided out of the Army. He'd had a short-lived thing with his commanding officer then, something they'd taken great pains to hide from everyone else. After all, it would've made the others uncomfortable if they'd seen Captain John Watson and Major James Sholto cuddling while on duty. But it had ended poorly not long before John was injured and there had been nothing in the months since except the clinical touches of doctors and nurses and the occasional brush of fingertips from a cashier handing over change at Tesco.

 "John Watson?"

 "All right, first thing... can you stop calling me 'John Watson' all the time? Just... 'John' is fine."

 "John. All right." Sherlock was still crouched next to the chair, his chin on level with John's chest as he stared up at the other man. John fought the urge to fidget away his nervousness... or, worse, to give in to temptation and reach out to stroke a finger along one impossibly high cheekbone, perhaps cup his palm along the Angel's sharp jawline. And those ridiculously defined lips were just begging for someone to kiss them, to nibble at the softness of the full lower lip and perhaps drag the tip of their tongue over the pronounced cupid's bow in the upper lip. _Did_ Angels do physical intimacy? It hadn't really been clarified earlier that evening and John would _love_ to know for sure right about now. He shoved the thoughts forcefully from his head, giving it a small shake, and concentrated on what they'd just been talking about.

 "Second thing... no, I don't want you to stop trying to help the police catch a murderer. He's killing innocent people; that can't be allowed to go on. Just don't leave me behind again and it's fine."

 "I can do that, John Wa - John." Sherlock rose from his crouch, tipping his head slightly as if listening to something. After a second, John heard it, too: heavy footsteps coming up the stairs to their flat. It didn't sound like Mrs. Hudson's careful tread, so unless they had another visitor on the way up, it had to be Lestrade.

 Sherlock was halfway to the sitting room door when Lestrade pushed it open, a look of triumph on his face. John pushed up from the armchair, staring at the DI expectantly.

 "'Rachel' was the name of Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

 John grimaced faintly in sympathy; how deeply must the death of the baby have cut for Jennifer Wilson to have scratched her name into a wood floor as she lay dying?

 "No, that... that's not right. How... why would she do that? Why?" Sherlock sounded completely confused, and John looked up at the Angel with his shock plain on his face. How could Sherlock _not_ understand this? He seemed to understand _everything_ , even things that John couldn't possibly wrap his normal, human brain around. And yet, the idea of a dying woman thinking of her stillborn daughter in her last seconds on Earth was beyond the genius Angel?

 Lestrade was giving Sherlock much the same look, his expression shocked and full of recrimination. Sherlock glanced up, eyes flickering between both John and Lestrade for a moment before he huffed, speaking quickly, "She didn't just _think_ about her daughter; she scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was _dying_ ; it took effort. It would have hurt." He turned his pale eyes back to John, nearly pinning the man with his gaze, his expression pleading as if hoping John could understand what he was trying to say.

 John hesitated a moment before speaking, trying to reason through what Sherlock could possibly mean with his insistence that Jennifer Wilson's scratching the name 'Rachel' into the floorboards was more than just the sentiment of the last hours of life. "You said that the victims took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it? Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

 Sherlock's face twisted slightly in disappointment and John felt it like a blow to his stomach, painful and unsettling in its intensity; he needed to pull himself back from this. He was already putting far too much weight on Sherlock's opinion of him and the Angel hadn't even been in his life a full 24 hours. This was unhealthy.

 "Yeah, but that was _ages_ ago," Sherlock snapped, still looking at John as if the man had disappointed him. "Why would she still be upset?"

 John froze, his eyes going wide as he stared at Sherlock in numb disbelief. Even if the Guardian Angel hadn't had smoky, nearly transparent wings rising from his back, John would have known in that moment that Sherlock was something Other, something Not Human. Sherlock seemed to realize he'd said something very wrong, and he glanced quickly between John and Lestrade, his expression going from annoyed to nervous in the space of a few seconds.

 "Not good?" His voice was barely a murmur, and he stared at John as if _John_ were the one who knew everything.

 "Bit not good, yeah," John confirmed, his own voice matching the quietness of his Angel's.

 Sherlock shook the moment off, stepping closer to John, invading his personal space without seeming to realize that was what he was doing. John drew a quick breath in through his nose as the warmth of Sherlock's chest pressed against his own, the distance between them barely worth mentioning. The Angel had no scent; most people smelled of the detergent they washed their clothes in, the soaps and shampoos they bathed with. Sherlock smelled faintly of the evening air and nothing beyond that. It startled John enough that he started to draw in a second breath until Sherlock spoke, lowering his voice even more, the tone somehow intimate in the negligible space between them, and John felt his entire body tightening up in response; usually when someone got that close to him, physical intimacy followed, and it was hard to not respond in the way he typically would have.

 "If you were dying... if you'd been _murdered,_ in your very last seconds, what would you say?"

 "'Please, God, let me live.'" John spoke the words without inflection, taken at once back to the baking heat of Afghanistan, the pain in his shoulder, the feel of the sand beneath him going tacky with blood.

 Obviously, Sherlock didn't remember the moment as well as John, because his lips pressed in annoyance and he snapped, "Oh, use your imagination!"

"I don't _have_ to." John almost spat the words out, and Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally as he realized what he had done wrong. For just the briefest moment, his eyebrows pulled down and he stared at John with apology on his face as he shifted from foot to foot in front of the shorter man.

"Yeah, but if you were clever,  _really_ clever... Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers -  _she_ was clever. She's trying to  _tell_ us something." Sherlock turned away, pacing the sitting room in sharp, jerky steps, his hands up and twisting through the air as he tried to think through the problem at hand. John sighed softly, leaning back on his heels as he tried to let go of the lingering pain of his near-death six months before and the continued hormonal maelstrom Sherlock's nearness had caused.

 Sherlock was still pacing and muttering under his breath, his frustration obvious as he crossed and recrossed the sitting room, ignoring both John and Lestrade. After a few seconds of watching the Angel muttering and pacing, John cleared his throat and turned to look at Lestrade.

 "I don't know if we're going to get anything else out of him tonight. Would you like me to ring you if he figures something out?"

 "Yeah, do that. I'll send someone to pick up the case in the next hour; proper evidence handling. Well, as proper as it can be now that you two have pawed through it." Lestrade patted his hip pocket absently as he glanced around the sitting room, obviously checking unconsciously that his phone was there before heading out. "I need to get home anyway; if I don't check in at least occasionally, the missus will think I don't live there anymore." He gave a quick laugh at his own joke, but there was a tightness around his eyes that made John open his mouth to ask if everything was okay. He shut it again quickly, though; they weren't close enough for those kinds of intimate questions into personal lives. They knew each other from John's part time work in the morgue, and as much as John liked the DI, he had no way of knowing if it would offend Lestrade if John started asking questions about the state of his marriage.

 "All right. Have a good night." John walked after Lestrade to the sitting room door, shutting it behind the DI as the man descended the stairs on his way out of 221. He stood there for a moment, shifting from foot to foot as he considered whether or not he should put tea on for himself. Sherlock was still pacing and muttering; it seemed likely he'd go on that way for hours while he tried to sort through whatever subtle clues he'd picked up over the last 24 hours. If John were going to be staying up to call Lestrade if Sherlock made some sudden breakthrough, he wanted to have caffeine in his system.

 John was moving past his pacing Angel towards the flat's kitchen when Sherlock made a sudden, startled noise and spun to face John. "Oh! Ah, she was clever! Clever, yes. Do you see it? Do you get it? She didn't _lose_ her phone! She never lost it; she _planted_ it on him!" Sherlock strode across the sitting room, stopping just in front of John. His subtly slanted eyes were wide and intense, a faint flush riding on his high cheekbones as he stared into John's eyes, willing the other man to see what he was seeing. "When she got out of the car, she knew she was going to her death. She left her phone in order to lead us to her killer."

 "Lead us to... but how?" John asked, struggling to keep up with the Angel's quick mind.

 "What do you mean, 'how'? Rachel!" Sherlock gestured, fingers splayed wide. "Don't you see? _Rachel!_ "

 "I'm not following."

 "Rachel is not a name!" Sherlock snapped, his mouth tightening slightly in disapproval.

 "Then what _is it?_ " John demanded, his own face twisting at Sherlock's tone.

 "John, on the luggage - there's a label. E-mail address."

 With a soft sigh, John moved past Sherlock and back to the pink case where it sat on the chair in front of Sherlock's black leather armchair. He opened the label and read out the address inside. "Jenny dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."

 John looked up, but Sherlock had already crossed the sitting room to the table against the wall. John's laptop had ended up there earlier in the day when he'd been planning to find a nearby restaurant for takeaway, and they hadn't moved it since they'd been home. Sherlock was opening the lid and typing before John could reach him, his long fingers flying over the keys. John made a mental note to put a password on the laptop to prevent the Angel from using it again; the last thing he needed was his Guardian Angel accidentally browsing through the porn John had last wanked to. Assuming, of course, that the Angel had never been hanging around incorporeally before when John had been wanking; John cringed at that disturbing thought, but pushed it away. That was one of those things that was better to not think about if at all possible.

 "Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone. So, it's a smartphone - it's e-mail enabled. So, there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address... and the password is?"

 "Rachel." John whispered the word, understanding washing over him. It all made sense suddenly; she had planted the phone and scratched the password onto the floor to lead the police to the killer. They just hadn't been clever enough to see it. John's admiration for Sherlock was growing by leaps and bounds with every hour he spent around the Angel, and he shook his head slightly as he looked down at the dark riot of curls on the back of Sherlock's head where the Angel was leaned over before him, staring down at the laptop on the table.

 "It's a smartphone; it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her." Sherlock was clicking quickly through the menu of options on the screen, moving inexorably for the option to track the phone.

 "And we know he didn't get rid of it," John said, the admiration he felt bleeding into his voice.

 Sherlock glanced up at John, his face showing the briefest flash of pleasure at the man's tone before he turned back to the screen; it was searching for the phone, a clock on the screen spinning uselessly as the program tried to get a lock. "Come on, come on. Quickly!"

 Sherlock was jittering in place and after a few more seconds, he pushed away from the sitting room table and began pacing again, obviously unable to hold still with the tension running so high. John took his place in front of the laptop, watching the screen with a kind of nervous intensity he hadn't felt in months. This was almost like emergency surgery, desperately trying to stop something that seemed inevitable and hanging on an emotional knife's edge the entire time.

 When the program finally got a lock on the phone, though, John's heart dropped. "Sherlock? It's... it's here. It's at 221 Baker Street."

 "What?" Sherlock rushed back over to the laptop, staring at the screen with a furrowed brow.

 There was a soft tap at the sitting room door and John looked up from the laptop. The door opened slightly and Mrs. Hudson peeked her head in. "There's a taxi cab downstairs for Sherlock," she said, her voice confused. "Didn't you hear him ring?"

 "We've been distracted; sorry, Mrs. Hudson." John stepped over to the sitting room door, his own brow furrowing. Sherlock couldn't possibly have called for a taxi; he didn't have a phone, and John's was still tucked in his pocket. The cab driver had to be confused. "I'll go down and have a word. Thanks for coming up to tell us."

 Mrs. Hudson gave John a warm smile before making her way carefully downstairs to her own flat. John glanced back over at Sherlock, meaning to repeat Mrs. Hudson's words to the Angel, but Sherlock was just behind him. He had the Seeming of the long overcoat on again, and John hesitated as he took it in. Sherlock obviously meant to take the cab, or he never would've bothered with the coat.

 "Sherlock? _Did_ you call a cab?"

 "I didn't. Interesting that one showed up on its own, though, isn't it?" Sherlock hesitated slightly at the sitting room door, his jaw tightening as he thought. "You'd better get your gun."

 "My _gun?_ " John went stiff with the rush of adrenaline. "For a cab ride?"

 "The GPS said the phone was here, didn't it? And we saw a taxi cab outside Northumberland Street. And who would suspect a cabbie of being a serial killer?"

 John's heart rate picked up as understanding swept over him. "I should call Lestrade."

 "Not yet. We need to be sure. We need to go down and take a ride. But, John, get your gun."

 John did not need to be told again. When Sherlock opened the front door of 221 Baker Street two minutes later to meet their cab, John had his handgun tucked securely into the waistband on his trousers at his lower back, covered neatly by his jacket.

 


	11. Known and Unknown

Sherlock stepped out into the night air, shoes tapping softly as they met the pavement in front of 221 Baker Street. He shot a quick glance behind himself to ensure John Watson was following him, determined not to lose his charge again even for a few seconds. Mycroft's warning earlier that evening was repeating in his head in an infuriating and distracting loop: "Should you abandon Dr. John Watson again, I will transfer his care permanently to Victor."

 He pulled his wings tightly to his back, folding them inward almost to the point of discomfort as he forcibly shoved the words away from the forefront of his mind. He could not focus on Mycroft's warnings and the potential loss of his assigned human _now_. If the cabbie waiting at the kerb really _was_ a murderer, both he and John Watson were in danger. Sherlock had to focus on what was happening to them at this moment, not what had been threatened hours before.

 The cabbie was leaning against his taxi cab in a relaxed and unconcerned pose when Sherlock and John approached. He didn't look intimidating, dressed in simple clothing old enough for their threadbare and well-used appearance to be obvious even under the weak illumination provided by the streetlights, his flat cap pulled low on his forehead and nearly touching the top rims of his wireframe glasses. He pushed off the cab and came towards them in a slow, confident saunter, moving with the confidence of a man with considerably more wordly goods than what he seemed to have. When he spoke, his voice sounded just as sure as his walk had looked; this was not a man with much doubt in himself and his abilities despite the seemingly innocuous clothing.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes." The man's accent was thick, the H in 'Holmes' dropping completely. Sherlock heard John pulling the front door shut behind him and listened to the soft thump of his shoes on the pavement as his charge came to stand beside him before he bothered answering the cabbie. 

"I didn't order a taxi."

"Doesn't mean you don't need one." The cabbie smiled faintly, glancing Sherlock up and down with a thoughtful expression, his eyes lingering on the shoulders of Sherlock's coat. The Angel fought the urge to glance down to understand what the cabbie was looking at; this was a game. He would not be showing weakness when they had barely passed opening salvos.

 "You're the cabbie that stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was _you_ , not your passenger."

 The cabbie's smile grew, obviously pleased that Sherlock had made the connection, and he looked away from his intense study of the shoulders of the coat to meet Sherlock's eyes. "See? No one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an head. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

 Sherlock heard John's soft intake of breath and knew the man was almost certainly thinking of the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers at his lower back. Perhaps John was relieved he had listened to Sherlock now that they had confirmation of the danger at hand. Sherlock merely tipped his head back slightly, gazing down his nose at the cabbie. "Is this a confession?"

 The cabbie's smile grew wide enough that his teeth showed, crooked and stained from a lifetime of tea and poor oral hygiene. "Confession. I like that. But you'd be the one with something to confess to, wouldn't you?" The cabbie tipped a conspiratorial wink at Sherlock and the Guardian Angel stiffened; did the cabbie know what he was? Is _that_ why he had been studying the shoulders of the coat? Was he looking for - or at - Sherlock's wings? "Yeah, it's a confession. And I'll tell you what else: if you call the coppers now, I won't run. I'll sit quiet and they can take me down. I promise."

 "Sherlock -" John began, leaning towards the Guardian Angel slightly, but Sherlock held up the hand nearest John, stopping him before he could say more.

 "Why?" he asked the cabbie, keeping his eyes locked onto the man. It wasn't wise to look away from a predator, and the cabbie was most definitely a predator. And the cabbie was keeping his eyes on Sherlock, ignoring John as if the other man wasn't even there. John held no interest for the cabbie; only Sherlock was worth noting.

 "'Cause you're not gonna do that."

 "Am I not?" Sherlock asked, truly curious.

 "I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to them... and they killed themselves. And if you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing: I will never tell you what I said."

 "Sherlock, Greg said -" John began again, but Sherlock shook his head minutely. The cabbie was terribly clever. He understood the way Sherlock's mind worked. He knew how important solving the puzzle was, and Sherlock felt slightly ashamed of himself that knowing _how_ and _why_ was more important than getting John away from a dangerous man and ensuring the murderer went to prison, where he most definitely belonged. But he needed to _know_ , and if he walked away now - even to protect John - he wouldn't get the satisfaction of knowing.

 "No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." Sherlock's voice was dry, betraying none of the inner turmoil he was feeling as he struggled with his personal desire to know everything and his role as a Guardian Angel to protect human lives.

 "And you won't ever understand how those people died. What kind of results do you care about?"

 Sherlock's wings fluttered against his back, trembling at the cabbie's words. This man _knew_ him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking the cabbie over again, but he was certain he had never seen this particular human before in his life. The cabbie was an older man and not a good person, so it was conceivable that he had been within Francis Hudson's sphere of influence years before, but Sherlock would have remembered if he had run into this man before. There was no way for the cabbie to know as much about Sherlock as he seemed to know, and yet...

 The cabbie had finally broken the stare down he and Sherlock had been sharing, had turned away and moved over to sit inside his taxi cab while Sherlock had been thinking, hands resting expectantly on the steering wheel. There was a pause as Sherlock shifted from foot to foot and then he moved quickly towards the back seat of the taxi cab.

 "Sh - Sherlock...!" John hesitated only a second before rushing around the cab to slide in the other side, joining his Guardian Angel with an expression of someone who had just bitten into a lemon.

 "If I wanted to understand, what would I do?" Sherlock asked, leaning forward slightly in the taxi cab to speak directly to the cabbie, trying to ignore the waves of disapproval that were radiating off of John beside him. He twisted on the seat, attempting to avoid crushing his long flight feathers beneath himself.

 "Let me take you for a ride. Your charge can come with us, I don't mind. Two for one."

 Sherlock frowned, keeping his eyes on the cabbie. The man _knew_... he had called John Sherlock's charge. But there was no possible way for the man to know unless he had been assigned a Guardian Angel himself once before. No, the word had to mean something else. Sherlock shook away his doubts, focusing on the conversation. "Go for a ride with you... so you can kill us, too?"

 "I don't wanna kill you, Mr. Holmes. I'm gonna talk to you... and then you're gonna kill yourself."

 "Sherlock." John hissed the word and Sherlock finally took his eyes off the cabbie to look at his human charge. "We should call Greg. We don't need to know _how_ he did it. We just need him to _stop_."

 Sherlock could not stop the hitch in his breathing as he stared at John. He knew the man was right: they didn't _need_ to know... except that Sherlock _did_. His desire for understanding nearly eclipsed his desire to protect John Watson. He opened his mouth but shut it a moment later when he realized he could not explain himself to his human charge.

 John's expression tightened as he watched the Guardian Angel struggle, the man seeming to realize that there would be no talking Sherlock out of the situation. John shook his head faintly, leaning back heavily against the seat back. "All right. Your way, then."

 The cabbie chuckled softly as he put the cab into gear, pulling out into traffic smoothly with both passengers safely ensconced in the backseat of the taxi cab. After only a few minutes, Sherlock was leaning forward to speak to the cabbie again. "How did you find me?"

"I was warned about you. Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant Guardian Angel on Earth. Recognized you as soon as I saw you chasing my cab."

John's soft huff was impossible to miss. Sherlock could feel his own shock reverberating through his body as the cabbie's words sunk in: he _knew_. He knew that Sherlock was a Guardian Angel. But who would have that knowledge except for the few human charges he had assisted in the Seeming of a physical body and the Angelic higher ups who were all in the Heavenly Realms, inaccessible to living humans?

 "Who warned you about me?" Sherlock asked, his voice weaker than he had intended it to sound.

 "Just someone out there who's noticed you." The cabbie sounded pleased to have thrown Sherlock off, glancing in the rearview mirror to take in Sherlock's expression.

 "Who?" Sherlock demanded, his voice growing stronger as the shock wore off.

 "You've got yourself a fan."

 "Sherlock." John was speaking softly and Sherlock glanced over. John had his mobile out between his knees, hidden by the backs of the seats in front of them. Sherlock glanced at it taking in the name on the screen - DI Greg Lestrade - and then looked up at John's face, seeing the question written there: should he notify Detective Inspector Lestrade? After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock nodded faintly and turned away to look towards the cabbie again. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he could see John thumbing in a text message to the DI.

 "It must be someone who is very aware of the Heavenly Realms for them to correctly identify me as a Guardian Angel."

 "Oh, he is." The cabbie chuckled softly, giving his head a minute shake. "Yeah, I'd say 'very aware' sounds about right."

 "Then _who_ is it?"

 "That would be telling." The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror, catching Sherlock's eyes for a moment with his own watery blue ones, the corners crinkling slightly as he smiled at the Guardian Angel in the backseat. "That's all you're gonna know in _this_ lifetime."

 Sherlock could tell from the set of the cabbie's jaw that he was done teasing them with his inexplicable knowledge for now. Their conversation was over until the cabbie decided on a new topic. Sherlock turned his attention to John, glancing over his charge with an expert eye and taking in the man's state of mind. He did not like what he was seeing. John was tired, despite his seeming willingness to continue the adventure that had started earlier in the evening. It had been a very long day, and the human was running on fumes and adrenaline.

 ' _Idiot_.' The mental reprimand was waiting right where it always waited when Sherlock failed to notice the obvious, as scathing as it was every time he admitted to himself that he had failed. He reached out to rest the tips of his first two fingers lightly on John's knee, offering a small physical comfort since he could not take away the exhaustion or turn the taxi cab around to return to their flat.

 "Not much longer, John."

 John's blue eyes were wide with surprise, ticking from the long fingers on his knee up to Sherlock's face. In the strobing of streetlights through the cab window's, Sherlock thought he saw a flush moving up John's cheeks but it was hard to tell for certain with the variable light. He took his fingers back, though, resting his hands on his own lap as they traveled through London at the cabbie's whim.

 Sherlock recognized their destination as the cab slowed to a stop some ten minutes later, but he asked for John's benefit. "Where are we?"

  
The cabbie shot him an amused look. "You know every street in London; you know _exactly_ where we are."

 John turned to give Sherlock an expectant look and the Angel sighed softly before speaking; this cabbie knew entirely too much about him and was far too confident of the knowledge. Where had he learned it all? "Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

 "It's open." The cabbie glanced at the twin buildings ahead of them, eyeglasses catching the light shining from within. "Cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice, quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

 Sherlock's lips thinned slightly at the jovial, unconcerned tone the cabbie took when speaking of ending human lives. John was fidgeting at his jacket pocket, obviously wanting to text DI Lestrade again now that the cab had come to a halt. Then it was Sherlock's job to distract the cabbie. "And you just walk your victims in? How?"

 The cabbie lifted a pistol, aiming it directly at the Angel, and Sherlock felt disgust rise in him; even in the dim light filtering from the college's windows, he could see that the pistol was not real. It did not have the weight of a real gun nor did it reflect light the way metal did. The cabbie was using a fake gun. "Oh, dull."

 "Don't worry," the cabbie reassured him, smirking. "It gets better."

 "You can't make people take their own lives at gunpoint," Sherlock pointed out.

 "I don't. It's much better than that." The cabbie lowered the gun, still smirking faintly. "Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me. And he'll follow you. Like I said: two for one." And the cabbie opened the door, stepping out of the cab and moving confidently towards the college.

 Sherlock huffed softly; the cabbie was right, of course. Sherlock _would_ follow him and John Watson would follow his Guardian Angel, believing that Sherlock would get them out of whatever situation followed. But Sherlock had gotten into the cab believing that he was dealing with a normal, run-of-the-mill psychopath. He had not known the cabbie was aware that he was anything besides the human he Seemed to be. With his knowledge of what Sherlock actually was, it greatly increased the risk to both himself and John.

 He could walk away now, he knew. He could grab John and run, dragging the human behind him to safety. The cabbie only had a fake pistol to threaten them with... but then Sherlock wouldn't know the how and why of the cabbie's killing spree.

 Slowly, he stepped from the cab, pausing once he had exited to spread his wings wide and draw a deep breath. He could hear John's thumbs speeding over the keys of his mobile as he shot a message to DI Lestrade. After a moment, Sherlock stepped forward, following the cabbie into the building, and John followed behind.


	12. The Battle of Wits

As he stepped into the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, trailing like a forgotten bit of paper behind Sherlock and the cab driver, John could feel himself slipping into the quiet, ready mindset that he had adopted so readily and so frequently when he and his escorts went into active warzones to rescue wounded soldiers. He felt sure that he was following his Guardian Angel into a dangerous situation... which, he thought, seemed somewhat counterintuitive to what a Guardian Angel should actually _do_. And yet, here they were: following an admitted murderer who had flashed a gun no more impressive than the one John had tucked into the waist of his trousers at his low back.  
  
And on that note, John had some serious questions about the gun the cabbie had pointed negligently at Sherlock to encourage the Guardian Angel to leave the taxi cab. John couldn't be sure without a bit more thorough study, but he felt a strong suspicion that the gun was no more real than his psychosomatic limp had been. But Sherlock had gone along with the cab driver, and so John had to treat the gun as if it _were_ real. The weight of his own handgun against his lower back was immensely comforting in light of the potential threat.

As they moved deeper into the dimly lit building, they were silent except for the sound of their shoes tapping against the polished floors and the soft susurration of cloth rubbing with each footstep. It was setting John on edge and each time the cabbie glanced back at the two men following him, John's hands twitched slightly with an aborted grab for the handgun hidden beneath his jacket.

 "This isn't how you usually do things, is it?" Sherlock's low voice rumbled off the walls, echoing faintly.

 "How d'you mean?" The cabbie glanced back again and John's hand twitched towards his back, stopping after only the slightest movement. God, he wanted to shoot the cabbie and be done with it. But he'd felt the buzz of his mobile against his thigh where it was tucked safely inside his front trouser pocket, and he knew DI Lestrade had gotten his texts. If he shot the cabbie now, he'd probably be tried for murder. He only had to prevent himself and Sherlock from doing anything unbelievably stupid until the police could arrive. That shouldn't be that hard.

 "I mean that you usually have a single victim. You don't usually bring along pairs."

 The cabbie gave a little snorted laugh, turning around more than he had before to rake his eyes over John where he trailed behind Sherlock. "Hardly much of a threat, is he? Little man, broken in both body and soul... so lost that his Guardian Angel had to take human form to try and get him back on his path? I've been told to dismiss him. He's an afterthought. Once I've dealt with you, he'll be taken care of like most afterthoughts are, swept up and tossed out."

 John didn't miss the way Sherlock's translucent wings tightened against his back, quivering with what John had to assume was barely contained anger. When the Angel spoke, his voice vibrated, too. "John Watson is _not_ an afterthought. You'd do well to keep an eye on him."

 The cabbie stopped abruptly in the hallway, turning around completely to slowly draw his eyes from John's shoes up his body, stopping at the crown of his head with an unimpressed smirk and a faint shake of his head. "I've had it from a source quite a bit more reliable than a lowly Guardian Angel that he's not a concern... and I don't see anything now that changes my mind on that. C'mon - time's wasting."

 The cabbie turned his back on Sherlock and John, picking up his pace a bit as he veered towards one side of the hall and, presumably, towards their final destination.

 Sherlock's wings were still tight against his back. After a moment's hesitation, he moved to follow the cabbie and John moved with him, their footsteps tapping softly and rebounding back at them in faint echoes that made it sound as if there were dozens of them rather than two. The cabbie was waiting at a door, holding it politely open for the Guardian Angel and his charge. Sherlock swept past after a brief pause to give the cabbie a hard, probing look and John followed, not even bothering to glance at the cabbie. He had been dismissed by the man; that gave John the advantage. The cabbie would never expect John to strike out at him if the need arose. His attention would be for Sherlock alone.

 The cabbie flipped the light switch on the wall, fluorescents buzzing into life above them after a brief hesitation. John swept his eyes around the room, taking it in. They were in a classroom filled with long wooden benches and plastic chairs, stark and simple. It was a place to memorize facts and figures, not meant to be comforting or inviting, but John was drawn back to his own days at university and time spent in similar classrooms, and he found himself almost liking the room, pacing away from Sherlock to more fully take in the ambiance. The Guardian Angel was also perusing the room, his pale eyes skirting from one spot to the next as he absorbed who-knew-what from the bits and bobs scattered throughout the classroom.

 The cabbie spoke, interrupting both men's perusal of the room. "Well, what do you think?"

 Sherlock raised his hands and gave a faint shrug, obviously unsure what the cabbie was asking him.

"It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here." The delight in his voice was subtle but unmistakable, and John turned to face the cabbie fully once more, keeping his eyes on the threat in the room.

"No, I'm not." Sherlock sounded confident, but the cabbie didn't lose the faint smile that had been ticking at his mouth since they'd arrived at the college.

"That's what they all say." He gestured towards one of the long benches, inviting Sherlock to come closer. "Shall we talk?"

The cabbie sat immediately as Sherlock walked over to join him. John was forgotten on the other side of the room, the unimportant detail too small to be included in the current negotiations between the two powers in the room. That was fine with John. He would happily be forgotten if it would give him an edge when things came to a head... and as each adrenaline-fueled moment ticked by, John became increasingly convinced that things _were_ coming to a head.

 "Bit risky, wasn't it?" Sherlock was removing his gloves calmly, shoving them into the pockets of his coat. It was all for show, of course; the gloves weren't real.  But it looked good. "Mrs. Hudson will remember you."

 "You call that a risk? Nah. _This_ is a risk." The cabbie shook his head faintly before reaching into a pocket of his jacket and removing a tiny, capped glass bottle with a single, large capsule resting within. He set it on the table between himself and the Guardian Angel with a soft clink. John's eyes ticked from the bottle to Sherlock, trying to pick up clues from Sherlock's expression what the 'risk' the cabbie was referring to might be. Sherlock, however, looked as blankly unknowing as John was.

 The cabbie gave a quick, dry chuckle. "Ooo, I like this bit, 'cause you don't get it yet, do you? But you're about to. I just have to do this." He reached into his jacket a second time and removed a second glass bottle. It was identical to the first in every way, right down to the large capsule within. He set it on the benchtop with an identical clink, smirking as he stared Sherlock down, drinking in his expression eagerly. "You weren't expecting that, were you? Ooh, you're going to love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock no longer sounded puzzled or curious; he sounded annoyed. John drifted a few steps closer, drifting around the edge of one of the long benches so slowly that the cabbie didn't even look up from his avid study of Sherlock's face.

 "Sherlock Holmes! Look at you, here in the flesh. Your fan told me all about you."

 "My _fan?_ " The annoyance in Sherlock's voice was impossible to miss now. Even the cabbie heard it, although it only made his smile grow.

 "You are brilliant. You are. A proper genius. I've heard all about _you_. Between you and me, sitting here, why can't people _think_? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just _think_?"

 The cabbie stared at Sherlock and Sherlock stared back, his pale eyes searching the lined, worn face of the cabbie for several long seconds. Finally, Sherlock's eyes narrowed knowingly and he leaned back in the hard plastic chair, his expression wavering somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "Oh, _I_ see. So, you're a proper genius, too."

 "Don't look it, do I?" The cabbie was smiling back as if he and Sherlock were sharing a little joke between them. John didn't like the expression on the man's face and he drifted slowly, subtly closer. "Funny little man, driving a cab... but you'll know better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you _ever_ know."

 The threat didn't seem to make an impact on Sherlock, although John subtly adjusted his jacket so he could brush his fingertips over the comfortingly solid weight of the gun tucked into the waistband at the back of his trousers.

 "Okay, two bottles." Sherlock inclined his head slightly towards the benchtop and the waiting glass bottles. "Explain."

 "There's a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. You take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

 Sherlock's eyes slashed across the room, catching John's with an intense expression that John couldn't understand for a moment. He realized his hand had begun drifting back towards the gun again at the cabbie's explanation of the bottles and Sherlock had known before John himself had registered the move. He tugged at his jacket again before letting his hands hang at his sides, clenching and unclenching his fists to try and expend some of the nervous energy coursing through him, waiting to be used.

 "Both bottles are identical, of course." Sherlock's attention was back on the cabbie, trusting John to do the right thing.

 "In every way," the cabbie confirmed.

 "And you know which is which."

 "'Course _I_ know." The cabbie sounded amused at Sherlock's question. John found that he was getting tired of the way the cabbie continued to almost mock Sherlock. More and more, the urge to go for the gun had less to do with ending the threat of a serial killer and more to do with ending the annoyance of the cabbie's mocking tone.

 Sherlock glanced between the two bottles again. "But I don't."

 "Wouldn't be a game if _you_ knew. You're the one who chooses."

 "Why should I? I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?" Sherlock demanded.

 "I haven't told you the best bit yet." The cabbie's smile grew again, his enthusiasm for 'the game' impossible to miss. "Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one. And then, together, we take our medicine."

 John's face twisted in disgust but he could see a smile slowly growing on his Guardian Angel's face and he drew back slightly. Sherlock looked at eager as a child who'd been told there were birthday gifts waiting for him downstairs. John had already seen that the Angel enjoyed puzzles and hunting down evil-doers, but _this_ was not something he had expected to see: excitement at the prospect of his own demise.

 "I won't cheat." The cabbie was drinking in Sherlock's eager expression, looking as if he'd expected exactly this. _Had_ he? How much had Sherlock's 'fan' passed on to this man? "It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't."

 Sherlock was studying the two bottles, leaning down to eye the identical pills housed within them. He had the same expression he'd worn when digging through the pink suitcase earlier in the evening: fully immersed in the study of the object before him, his fantastic mind churning through possibilities as he picked up the tiniest of clues.

 "Didn't expect _that_ , did you?" The cabbie nodded faintly at his own words, brushing his palms lightly down the front of his jumper.

 "This is what you did to the rest of them." Sherlock's voice was distracted, the words soft as he continued his intimate study of the bottles. "You gave them a choice."

 "And now I'm giving _you_ one."

 Sherlock's eyes slid from the bottles back to the cabbie. Slowly, the Angel straightened in his chair, his wings shivering and shifting slightly to settle the feathers the way a person would roll their shoulders to ease a muscle.

"Take your time. Get yourself together." The cabbie managed to make the words sound magnanimous, as if he were giving Sherlock extra consideration by not forcing him to choose at that exact moment. He wet his lips, tongue flicking out snake-like. He shifted in his chair, leaning slightly closer to the benchtop and Sherlock. "I want your best game."

 "It's not a _game_ ; it's _chance_." Sherlock frowned slightly, leaning back from the cabbie.

 "I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. Holmes - it's chess. It's a game of chess with one move and one survivor. And this - _this_ \- is the move."

 The cabbie reached out slowly with one hand, gently nudging one of the bottles closer to Sherlock. His tongue flicked out again, wetting his lips, and he drew his hand back again, leaving the bottles staggered.

 "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

 "Sherlock." John couldn't keep the tension out of his voice. The situation was _insane_. Obviously, Sherlock couldn't actually choose _either_ bottle, but the fact that the cabbie was trying to push him into just such a choice was making John feel slightly panicked. He wanted to _act_ , not stand in a college classroom that smelled strongly of Dry Erase markers and industrial-strength cleansers watching his Guardian Angel engage in a game of wits that would only end when one of the participants was dead.

 "Not now, John." Sherlock's voice was gentle but dismissive and John took a few steps closer, putting himself less than three metres away from the two idiot geniuses.

 "Sherlock, I don't -"

 "John." Sherlock glanced over, giving the faintest shake of his head, and John clenched his jaw on the words that were fighting to come out. After a moment, Sherlock turned back to the bottles and John glanced at the cabbie, meeting the man's eyes for just a moment. In the brief glance, though, the man's disdain for John was obvious yet again.

 The cabbie turned back to Sherlock, his expression changing as he focused on his supposed equal once again. "Do you need to discuss it with your charge? I was under the impression that Guardian Angels weren't in the habit of talking their decisions over with the humans they're supposed to be guiding."

 Sherlock merely shook his head, pressing his full lips together for a beat. John had to fight off a disbelieving laugh; the idea of the Guardian Angel doing anything as common as sitting down with his human charge to work through a list of pros and cons for _any_ decision he had to make was patently ridiculous. As extensive of John's admiration for Sherlock was, it was silly to imagine that Sherlock felt anything for John beyond a sense of duty. John knew he was just another human in the Guardian Angel's eternity.

 "You sure? I wouldn't mind waiting while you two worked through the particulars. After all, if you choose poorly, it'll affect him, too."

 Sherlock's eyes ticked up from the bottles. "Oh?"

 "Well, he'll lose his Guardian Angel, obviously. Less obviously, I can't let him go running off to tell the Yard about me, can I? It'd be bad for business. So, I'd have to ensure he didn't leave alive, either."

 Sherlock made a face, wings spreading slightly as he stared the cabbie down. "John is more than a match for you physically. I doubt you would be able to overpower him in the unlikely event that I _did_ choose the wrong pill."

 "I might surprise you," the cabbie said, smirking.

 "Or John might surprise _you_. I feel fairly confident that his physical strength could easily best you. You aren't at the top of your game currently, are you?"

 "Time to play." The cabbie nodded towards the bottles on the benchtop but Sherlock gave a faint shake of his head.

 "I _am_ playing. This is _my_ turn. There's shaving cream behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children in your cab. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old, but the frame is new; you think of the children but you don't get to see them."

The cabbie's eyes ticked away from Sherlock, the faintest look of pain sliding across his features at the Angel's words. John shook his head faintly; it didn't matter how many times he watched Sherlock flash through deductions of other people's lives based on tiny clues. It was amazing each time, and his admiration for his Guardian Angel grew with each word.

 "Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it _still_ hurts." Sherlock paused for a moment, eyes moving across the cabbie. "Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least... three years old? Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's _that_ about?"

 The cabbie's expression was back to blank amusement, though, and he met Sherlock's gaze without flinching. Sherlock's eyes widened suddenly and confidence swept over his face.

 "Ahh. Three years ago... is that when they told you?"

 "Told me what?" The cabbie sounded resigned rather than defiant, still meeting Sherlock's gaze without flinching but his faint smile was gone now.

 "That you're a dead man walking."

 "So are you," the cabbie countered, but Sherlock waved the words away with a single long-fingered hand.

 "You don't have long, though. Am I right?"

 The cabbie smiled then, but this expression lacked all the anticipation that the earlier smiles had held. This smile was bitter and resigned. "Aneurism," the cabbie confirmed, lifting his hand to tap a single finger lightly against his skull. "Right in here. Any breath could be my last."

 Sherlock frowned faintly, studying the cabbie. "And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

 "I've _outlived_ four people. That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

 "Pretty sure it's still murder," John muttered, unable to stop himself. Sherlock shot a glance at him, expression thoughtful as he stared at his charge. After a moment, he nodded at John, raising one dark eyebrow slightly before turning to face the cabbie again.

 "John is right. Call it what you will, but you have murdered four people. For what? The fun of it?"

"I have a sponsor." The cabbie shrugged faintly, trying to look self-conscious but failing completely. "For every life I take, money goes to my kids. The more I kill, the better off they'll be, you see? It's nicer than you think."

 Sherlock frowned, expression puzzled. "Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

 "Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" the cabbie countered. For a moment, they stared at each other silently before the cabbie sat forward once more. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there just like you, except you're just one little Angel... and they're so much more than that."

 "What does that mean?" Sherlock demanded.

 "There's a name no one says," the cabbie explained, giving a faint shake of his head. "And I'm not going to say it, either. Now, enough chatter. Time to choose."

 Sherlock looked back down at the bottles for a moment. "What if I don't choose either? I _could_ just walk out of here."

 The cabbie sighed in exasperation, his face twisting in disappointment as he reached into his jacket to draw out his gun once again. John's hand slid beneath his own jacket, fingers resting lightly against the gun as he watched to see if he needed to draw it.

 "You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head," the cabbie said conversationally. Sherlock smiled in response to the words, and the cabbie frowned faintly. "Funnily enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

 "Mm. I'll have the gun, please." Sherlock sounded almost bored, and John's fingertips stroked across the butt of the gun at his lower back once more. He couldn't understand what game Sherlock was playing. Did he know something John didn't? Surely he wasn't _actually_ asking to be shot; there had to be something he'd seen that John had missed. But if he were wrong... John's fingers twitched against the handgun again.

 "Are you sure?" The cabbie sounded doubtful, eyes narrowing slightly behind the lenses of his glasses as he stared at the Angel across the bench from him.

 "Definitely. The gun."

 "You don't want to phone a friend?" The cabbie's tone was almost teasing. John's hand closed around his own handgun, ready to pull it out.

 "The gun," Sherlock insisted, voice low and hard.

 The cabbie's face tightened for a moment and then he squeezed his finger on the trigger. John sucked in a sharp breath, adrenaline bursting through him as he pulled the gun from his waistband. But there was no report of a bullet firing from the cabbie's gun. Instead, there was a muted click and a small flame burst from the muzzle. It was a cigarette lighter.

 "I know a real gun when I see one." Sherlock was smug, pushing up from the bench with the scrape of the chair's metal feet against the tile floor.

 "None of the others did," the cabbie said, releasing the trigger and letting the flame go out.

 "Clearly." Sherlock's tone was dry and he turned away from the cabbie and towards John, smiling faintly. John's hands were once more resting at his sides, giving no sign that he'd nearly drawn a gun and killed the cabbie seconds before. "Well, this has been _very_ interesting. I look forward to the court case."

 The cabbie lowered the fake gun to the benchtop, turning to watch Sherlock's path to John. "Just before you go... did you figure it out? Which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course. Child's play." Sherlock nodded John towards the door, his wings spreading slightly almost as if he wanted to shield John from the man behind them. John took the hint and started walking, Sherlock's footsteps following.

"Well, which one, then?" the cabbie asked, raising his voice as John reached out to open the door. "Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?"

 "Sherlock." John's voice was soft, the query in it clear as he stared at his Guardian Angel. John was at the door, holding it open and waiting for Sherlock to join him, but the Angel was hesitating at the last bench, his back to the cabbie but his head turned slightly to keep the man in view. "Sherlock, let's go."

 The cabbie chuckled, staring after John and Sherlock. "Come on; play the game."

 "Sherlock. Sherlock, don't -"

 But Sherlock was walking slowly back towards the bench at which the cabbie still sat, smirking at the Angel as he approached. Sherlock's hand swept out, snatching one of the bottles off the benchtop before turning back towards John.

 "Oh. Interesting." The cabbie's voice was colorless, giving absolutely nothing away. John released the door, striding across the room to join his Guardian Angel, staring in disbelief at the bottle resting in the long-fingered hand.

 "Sherlock?" John's voice was soft, his eyes ticking from Sherlock's unreadable face down to the bottle and back up to Sherlock's face.

 The cabbie unscrewed the metal top from his own bottle, tipping the capsule into his palm before raising it up to examine it thoughtfully for a moment. "So, what do you think? Shall we?"

 John reached out, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's slim wrist. His fingertips rested on the thin skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrist, feeling the slow, steady beat of the Angel's heart. Sherlock met John's eyes directly for the first time since he'd gone back into the classroom, his expression impossible to interpret.

 "You don't have to." John's tone was almost pleading, but Sherlock twisted his wrist, gently breaking free of John's hold. He raised his newly freed hand, staring hard at the bottle in his palm, the capsule within clinking softly against the glass as he shifted the bottle.

 "Really, what do you think?" the cabbie prompted, still sitting at the bench across the room. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life?"

 "Sherlock, you don't _have_ to," John repeated, and as he stared at his brilliant Guardian Angel, watched Sherlock watching the slow movement of the capsule inside the glass bottle, he realized that actually, Sherlock _did_ have to. John pressed his lips tightly together, biting back whatever protests he wanted to let spill from his lips. He hadn't even known Sherlock a full day, and he already knew that Sherlock was the type of person who _had_ to know, even if knowing cost him dearly.

 "I bet you get bored, don't you?" The cabbie's voice was soft and low, subtle as it wove through the dimly lit classroom. "I _know_ you do. A man like you... so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?"

 The capsule within the bottle clinked again as Sherlock shifted it, reaching to unscrew the metal lid with a soft rasp. The capsule fell from the bottle into Sherlock's palm, and the Angel lifted it between thumb and forefinger to examine it closely, his eyes ticking across it over and over as he analyzed his own deductions, looking for flaws.

 " _This_ is what you're really addicted to, isn't it? You'd do anything - anything at all - to stop being bored."

 John couldn't take his eyes off Sherlock, breathing in shallow pants as he watched his Guardian Angel slowly lifting the pill towards his face - towards his mouth. Silently, he mouthed Sherlock's name.

 "You're not bored now, are you? Isn't it good?"

 The sound of the classroom door slamming open behind John nearly made him startle out of his own skin.

 "Drop it!" DI Lestrade's familiar voice rang through the classroom, its tone one of someone who was used to being obeyed at once. Across the room, the cabbie had jumped up at the sudden interruption, hands slamming down to brace on the benchtop. One hand landed on top of the fake gun, and John was bracing himself before he even realized that was what he meant to do.

 "Gun!" the female officer just behind Lestrade shouted, and there was a double report of weapons being fired. The cabbie tumbled back, collapsing to the ground as Lestrade swore angrily. Sherlock was rushing across the room to the cabbie, dropping to his knees beside the man. John followed him instinctively, crouching just beside the Angel.

 Sherlock had his hands on the cabbie's chest, covering the two rapidly growing bloody spots on his shirtfront. John could hear Sherlock whispering something, and he leaned closer to catch the words.

 "I can make it hurt worse. I can make it _so_ much worse. Tell me: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me, my 'fan;' I want a name."

 "No." The word was a whisper, full of pain and determination. Sherlock's face went cold and the hands resting on the cabbie's chest flexed faintly. To John, it merely looked like Sherlock was adjusting their position but the cabbie's entire body went tight with pain, his mouth dropping open in a silent scream, fingers scrabbling weakly at the tile beneath him. John could hear Lestrade approaching them, his shoes tapping against the tiles.

 "A name. _Now_."

 The cabbie whined softly and Sherlock's hands flexed again, prompting another full-body spasm of pain from the cabbie beneath them.

"The _name!_ " The words were furious, very nearly growled, and John pushed to his feet, preparing to delay Lestrade if necessary.

 "Moriarty!" The single word was howled in agony, loud enough that Lestrade broke into a run for his last few steps. By the time he'd reached John and Sherlock, though, the cabbie was limp, his eyes staring blankly into nothingness. Slowly, Sherlock drew his hands from the man's chest, his expression thoughtful, and John stepped out of Lestrade's way as the other man pressed close to the obviously deceased cabbie to check for a pulse.

 Sherlock stood slowly, turning away from the DI and the corpse. John could see that the Angel's expression was thoughtful still as he mouthed the single word the cabbie had given him: 'Moriarty.'


	13. Partners

Sherlock did not bother to even make a passing attempt at hiding the annoyance on his face as the tedium of being detained by the police stretched from 'just a few minutes' to the better part of an hour. John was taking the delay well, Sherlock noted as he cast another glance over at his charge - one of the multitude of glances he'd been throwing at John all evening. Something about John Watson drew the eye, and Sherlock was very curious to find out _what_ , exactly, it was. A more detailed study of his human charge now that they shared physical space was definitely on the list of things to accomplish.

 DI Lestrade drifted past Sherlock and John where they perched on the back bumper of the ambulance - that neither of them needed - for the third time, his eyes cutting over to give both men a quick up-and-down glance. Sherlock felt fairly certain that Lestrade was trying to decide how best to approach them; after all, they'd been in the room with the murderer that the Yard had been seeking for weeks and while they insisted that they'd been taken hostage and forced into a game of wits, the only proof was their word.

 Sherlock had shown Lestrade that he had an uncanny window into the murderer's soul when he'd deduced the life and death of the woman in pink in the St. Bart's mortuary; it only made sense for Lestrade to be suspicious of him now that he'd shown up in the room with the murderer several hours after telling Lestrade that there _was_ a murderer.

 Lestrade suddenly reversed directions, turning on the ball of his foot and moving purposefully towards John and Sherlock, his jaw tight. He'd decided to approach them with his suspicions, then.

 "All right, John?" Lestrade's tone was friendly as he glanced over at the sandy-haired man sitting to Sherlock's left, and John raised his head from a contemplation of his own hands, blinking slowly as he focused on the DI. It was very late, and John Watson was obviously running on empty. Adrenaline could only carry a human body so far, after all; John needed both food and sleep, and very soon.

 "Greg. Yeah, just... what a night, eh?" John gave a tired, wry laugh, raising his shoulders in a slight shrug. Lestrade grimaced in sympathy before slowly reaching into an inner pocket of his suit jacket to draw out a notepad.

 "I hate to bother you again," Lestrade began, and Sherlock frowned.

 "Then why do it?"

 "Sherlock!" The scolding tone in John's voice was impossible to miss, and Sherlock turned a frown onto his human charge.

 "You are obviously exhausted, John; not even the DI could miss the signs. It is late and you have had a long and trying day. He says he hates bothering you when you're so tired, and yet he has a notepad out to take notes and a look of determination about him that suggests he's going to badger you until he's certain there are no flaws in your story." Sherlock turned his eyes to Lestrade, not bothering to temper his glare. "Isn't that right, DI Lestrade?"

 "I... yeah, look, there's protocol that needs to be -"

 "And it can't wait until morning? Is his testimony so important that it has to be taken down - for the third time - before he gets some rest?"

 Lestrade shuffled slowly from foot to foot, his right hand clenching on the notebook as his left picked nervously at the spiral binding.

 "You have John's text messages on your mobile. You can match the time stamps from those to the  timeline John gave both you and your waspish assistant."

 "My assis - you mean Donovan?" Lestrade snorted out a humorless laugh as he cast a glance across the crowd of officers milling around the area, seeking out the curly head of the woman in question. "Don't let her hear you call her that or you'll have more problems than you know what to do with."

 "Is there anything else you _truly_ need tonight? Wouldn't tomorrow be a workable compromise?" Sherlock pressed.

 Lestrade glanced between Sherlock and John, the determination on his face slowly falling into a look of consternation and finally one of resignation.

 "Right. Okay. First thing tomorrow, John?"

 "Yeah, of course. We'll be there." The look of relief on John's face solidified Sherlock's belief that he'd done the right thing in insisting Lestrade hold any more questions until the following morning. He leapt from the back of the ambulance, stretching his wings wide to right the feathers he'd been forced to sit on for the last hour. John hopped down slower and gave a much more human stretch of his arms, swinging them a bit before turning to look up at Sherlock, his face questioning.

 "Let's go." Sherlock set off quickly, weaving through the assembled officers to the edge of the cordoned off area, lifting the crime scene tape high to allow both John and himself to escape the scene.

 Walking seemed to be helping John to wake up, and Sherlock noticed the man giving him quick, thoughtful glances as they moved out of the flashing lights of the police vehicles and into the more steady light cast by the moon and streetlights lining the pavement.

 “Are you all right?” Sherlock kept his tone calmly detached; he’d dragged his charge into an extremely dangerous situation when his entire job was to prevent John Watson being in situations that could endanger his life and therefore eliminate the destiny he was meant to fulfill. If John were now rethinking whether or not he actually wanted his Guardian Angel in his life –

 “Yeah, fine. Fine.” John cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back, shifting his gaze to Sherlock for another short glance. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 “I took you into a dangerous situation. A man was killed in front of you. Either one of those would bother most people.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” John said agreeably, nodding slightly. A small smile twitched up the corners of his mouth and he added, “He wasn’t a very _nice_ man.”

Sherlock hesitated a moment and then said, “No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?”

 “And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.”

 Sherlock chuckled, unable to hold back his amusement and relief at John’s response to the situation. “That’s true. He _was_ a bad cabbie. Did you notice the route he took to get us here?”

 John giggled at Sherlock’s response and then shot a guilty look around them, making sure no of the police officers drifting around the area were near enough to hear him. “Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle; it’s a _crime_ scene! Stop it!”

 There was a brief lull in the conversation as they left behind even the officers at the edges of the scene. John cleared his throat again and Sherlock glanced over at the man.

 "You were going to take that bloody pill, weren't you?" John somehow managed to sound both amused and accusatory and Sherlock stopped walking, turning to look squarely at him.

 "'Course I wasn't. Biding my time; knew the police would show up eventually."

 “No, you didn’t.” John was still smiling. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock was truly curious and was enjoying this glimpse into John’s mind.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

 Sherlock felt amusement bubble up inside of him. John had not sounded angry or truly accusatory. If anything, he sounded as if he were teasing the Angel. Instead of being upset – perhaps the sane response to your guardian putting you deliberately in the path of danger – John was teasing him. 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, fighting off the delighted smile that was trying to make its way onto them. He was not going to be sent away from John Watson any time soon, so he needed to get back to caring for his charge. “Dinner?”

“Starving,” John agreed. They both turned and resumed their walk down the street, away from the crime scene behind them, walking so closely that their arms brushed occasionally as they moved. Sherlock found it immensely comforting that the man would choose to be so close to him, and, beyond that, enjoyed simply having John near to him.

 “End of Baker Street, there’s a good Chinese stays open until two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle.” Sherlock broke off, noticing a car parked just a few metres beyond them, idling at the kerb. When Mycroft stepped out of the back, Sherlock could not hide the trepidation that swept over him. John Watson might not be in danger of booting Sherlock from the role of his Guardian Angel, but Mycroft might have other ideas.

 “Sherlock?” John sounded concerned, following Sherlock’s gaze to Mycroft. He glanced the other man up and down before turning his attention back to Sherlock. “Who is that? What’s wrong?”

 “My commander.” The words came out faint, Sherlock distracted by his own racing thoughts. “But what is he doing _here?_ ”

 Sherlock made up his mind abruptly and moved forward, wings spreading wide as he approached the taller Angel. Mycroft nodded faintly in greeting, his own pale golden wings remaining tightly folded against his back.

“So, another case cracked,” Mycroft said in lieu of greeting. “How very public spirited… though that’s never really your motivation, is it?” Mycroft’s eyes drifted to the shorter man standing just behind Sherlock and he gave a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. “Hello, Dr. John Watson.”  
  
“What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded, cutting through the pleasantries to get right to the point.  
  
“I’m concerned about you.” Mycroft’s tone was bland, no concern evident in the words or in his bored expression as he stared down his patriarchal nose at the younger Angel. The car door on the opposite side of the car opened and Sherlock suspected who it would be before the blond curls even appeared over the top of the car. Victor’s expression was easier to read than Mycroft’s, full of embarrassment and discomfort at the situation as he glanced between his commander and Sherlock.

“After our discussion earlier, imagine my surprise when I saw that you had allowed yourself and Dr. John Watson to get into a vehicle with a man responsible for multiple deaths over the last month. Initially, I thought perhaps you had been captured or tricked into going along, but – of course – that wasn’t the case, was it? 

Sherlock didn’t reply, his jaw clenching as he fought back all the words he _wished_ to say in the face of his obviously displeased commander.

 “I wanted to go.”

 The words came from behind Sherlock and were so unexpected that it took Sherlock a moment to realize that it was John who was speaking. He glanced back at his charge, eyes widening as he took in John’s casual pose and bland expression.

 “I’m sorry?” Mycroft sounded as startled as Sherlock felt, but Sherlock did not look back at his commander; his eyes were all for John Watson in that moment. The tiny smile, the even soldier’s stance, and even the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes all said that John was unintimidated by Mycroft.

 “I wanted to go. When Sherlock suggested we go with the man he suspected might be the murderer, I wanted to go along.”

“That hardly matters; it isn’t your job to protect yourself. It is, however, Sherlock’s job to protect you.”

“Yeah, but it’s also his job to help me prevent hundreds of people from dying that I might save, right? I’d say going along with him to catch a murderer is right in line with that.”

 There was a silence that stretched long enough that Sherlock turned away from John to look back at his commander once more. Mycroft’s expression had soured at John’s words, and Sherlock fought the urge to smile manically at the other Angel. On the other side of the car, safely hidden from Mycroft’s line of sight, Victor was smiling in appreciation for John’s mental gymnastics to turn what was a breach of duty into a fulfillment of that same duty.

 “Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?” Mycroft’s voice was tight and his expression tried to twitch into a smile but somehow came across as someone who’d just bitten into a slice of lemon. “It is reassuring to hear that Sherlock is remaining true to his assignment. We will, of course, be keeping an eye on you both… to ensure that no harm comes to either of you.”

 “Of course,” Sherlock agreed, his usual confidence coming back to him as the danger of being taken from John Watson slowly ebbed away. If there’s nothing else, I need to get John fed –”

 “There is actually one more thing,” Mycroft said, halting Sherlock as he started to turn away. Sherlock sighed softly as he turned back to his commander, pressing his lips together in annoyance at being delayed yet again. “It has been brought to my attention that there are some dangerous elements within the city that are beyond your understanding. Should you come across a mystery that seems completely impossible, do _not_ pursue it. That is an order.”

 Sherlock was twitching with the desire to argue. Mysteries were what he _breathed_ for; to be told not to pursue one – to be _ordered_ – made everything in him rebel. Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he watched the younger Angel struggle with the command, and Sherlock took a deep breath. If taking Sherlock out of his human Seeming was the only way to prevent him from pursuing this ‘impossible mystery,’ Mycroft would not hesitate. If he fought against Mycroft now, he _knew_ that he would be permanently reassigned away from John Watson.

 “All right.” The words scraped out of his throat with difficulty, Sherlock forcing them past his desire to refuse to obey and do as he would. The simple fact was, though, that John Watson was more important than a mystery, even an impossible one.

 “Good. Then I suppose Victor and I have somewhere else we need to be.” Mycroft managed another pinched smile, eyes ticking from Sherlock to John and then back to Sherlock. “Good night.”

 Sherlock turned away, as eager as a hound on the hunt to be away. He was several steps away from the car before he realized John was not following him. Faintly, he could hear John speaking to his commander and he glanced back, watching the two of them speaking as Victor climbed back into the idling car.

 After only a few words, John turned and hurried to catch Sherlock up, falling into step with the taller Angel as they resumed the route they’d been following earlier before Sherlock veered off to speak to Mycroft.

 “Your commander?” John asked.

 “Mmm.”

 “He’s the one who reassigned you after Afghanistan?”

 “Yes, at the urging of the Council.”

"Ah.” John paused for a moment, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket for a moment. “Was he going to reassign you again just now?”

 “More than likely. And probably permanently, this time.”

“Then I’m even happier that I stepped in.”

 There was a silence and Sherlock threw a quick glance over at his human charge. He hesitated, wondering if it was a good idea to ask the question pushing at him. After a few moments, though, he gave in to temptation. “What did you say to him?”

 “Hmm? Oh, just pointed out that I haven’t had even the slightest urge to do myself in since you arrived.”

 Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that. “Oh?”

 “I’ve wondered a few times if I was going to die in spite of my desire to keep on living, but… yeah, the urge to leave prematurely is gone. It’s too interesting with you around to leave.” A soft smile lit up John’s face as he looked up at Sherlock. The streetlight they were passing under threw shadows down John’s face, making it harder to read the expression on it, but there was something in it that seemed a little shy.

 Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to the soft smile and the shy expression and his brain scrambled for something to say. It settled finally on the cabbie’s final word, and he blurted, “It’s likely to get quite a bit more interesting.”

 “Oh? Why’s that?”

 “Moriarty.” Sherlock nearly caressed the word as he spoke, enjoying the sound of it and the mystery around it.

 “The cabbie said that. What’s Moriarty?”

 “I’ve absolutely _no_ idea,” Sherlock admitted, smiling broadly at the prospect of a new enigma to pursue as he worked to move John Watson firmly back onto his predestined path.

 John snorted softly, shaking his head, but the soft expression on his face didn’t fade as he gazed over at his Guardian Angel. If anything, it grew even fonder. Sherlock didn’t mind; he was finding he somewhat liked John Watson’s fondness being directed towards him. Had he looked back, he would have seen Mycroft watching them keenly, and the expression on his commander’s face was not a happy one.

 


	14. Falling Deeper

John had lived in a few flatshares in his life, and there was always an initial period of adjustment. Nothing was ever perfect right from the beginning, and sharing a flat with his Guardian Angel appeared to fit the pattern. For one thing, Sherlock didn’t sleep. They’d arrived home terribly late – or terribly early, depending on how you wanted to look at it – and John had collapsed into an armchair next to the dark fireplace, watching Sherlock pace thoughtfully around the sitting room. It had seemed like only a few minutes of watching the long-legged Angel moving back and forth across the room, his movements like the lapping of ocean waves against the shore, but when John glanced at his watch he found that nearly an hour had passed.

He’d felt awkward taking his leave of Sherlock, but the Angel had barely glanced up from whatever deep thought had caught his attention. John hadn’t expected him to; he felt quite sure that his Guardian Angel had more on his mind than saying goodnight to his assigned human. John left Sherlock standing in the center of the sitting room and muttering softly to himself as he headed through the kitchen to the bedroom beyond.

The next morning, John stumbled out of his bed much later than was typical for him, having slept through until well after breakfast, if the sunlight slanting through the windows in his bedroom was to be believed. Hardly surprising, considering the physical exertion he’d gone through the day and evening before. When he’d finally fallen into bed, it had been half past three in the morning, only thirty minutes before his usual rising time. What _was_ surprising was that he’d slept without dreaming, coming to consciousness slowly and comfortably that morning.

‘ _I shouldn’t depend on this being my new normal,_ ’ John told himself as he slowly pushed to a sitting position on the edge of his bed, feet flat on the carpeting. He stretched and yawned, enjoying not waking with a pounding heart and surging adrenaline caused by repetitive nightmares. Only 24 hours with Sherlock and already his life was unrecognizable to what it had been for the last few months. Angels were meant to be saviors, but this seemed even better than the stories John remembered from Bible school. Besides, no Biblical Angel was ever described as ‘unbearably gorgeous’ that John could remember. Too bad; a bit of warning might have helped.

 John found himself embarrassingly eager to check in with his Angel that morning and he was out of bed before he was even fully awake, shrugging into his robe before plodding down the hallway to the kitchen. He rubbed sleep from his eyes as he made his way inexorably towards the kettle and its promise of hot tea, glancing around to find Sherlock.

He paused for a moment when he saw Sherlock still standing in the center of the living room with his sleeves rolled halfway up his lean forearms, his eyes shut in contemplation, and one long pointer finger resting lightly on his chin. He was in nearly the same position in which John had left him the night before. Did he stop moving when John wasn’t there? Did he only mime human actions to keep John from being uncomfortable? Or was it just a coincidence that he was standing in the same spot in nearly the same pose as when John had left him hours before? Sherlock hadn’t even changed his clothes in the hours that John had been asleep. But then, John supposed that the clothes weren't really there anyway so they wouldn't need changing. Imaginary clothing almost certainly didn’t need either laundering or mending; it would save a bundle if only normal humans were able to master the trick, John mused, slowly dragging his eyes away from the long, lean form of Sherlock.

 John made his way to the kettle, filling it from the kitchen tap and flipping it on to boil, casting another glance over his shoulder at the arched wings of the angel standing in front of the living room windows, framed by the light spilling through the thin white curtains. Not even a feather ruffled on the huge wings as John stared, and he wondered if he ought to clear his throat to announce himself. That was the exact moment Sherlock’s eyes opened.

 “Did you sleep well?” Sherlock asked, turning to watch John as John began putting together his morning tea things.

 “Unsurprisingly, yes,” John said, moving to the cabinet to lift out a mug and a single tea bag. “I suppose sleeping like the dead is a by-product of running across half of London and taking down a criminal mastermind.”

 Sherlock turned to face John in the kitchen, wings spreading wide in a stretch as Sherlock rolled his shoulders. “Oh, he was hardly a mastermind, John. He was more of a pawn in a much larger game. And _that's_ what worries me.”

 “What do you mean, a pawn?” John asked. “He seemed to be in charge of himself. At least, he did to _me_.”

 “He fancies himself very clever, true, but Jeff Hope was _not_ a criminal mastermind. No mastermind would come at us so brazenly; they'd want to sneak in, infiltrate themselves in our lives and gather information subtly.”

 “Wait - Jeff Hope?”

 “The cabbie, John. Try to keep up.” There was impatience in Sherlock’s voice and John pressed his lips together for a moment in annoyance; he’d barely been up ten full minutes and Sherlock apparently expected him to be aware of facts he’d had no way of gathering the night before. For being as beautiful as he was, Sherlock could certainly be unpleasant.

 John frowned down at the countertop, nudging his empty mug across it with a forefinger to avoid snapping back at Sherlock. “I suppose I missed his name in all the excitement last night. How did _you_ find it out?”

 “A determined individual can find out many things when they don't need to stop to sleep. And, Detective Inspector Lestrade came by several hours ago. I didn't want to disturb your rest and resisted him when he thought I should, but he was rather insistent that we come down to New Scotland Yard as soon as you were awake. Which, you are now, so I suppose we ought to go.”

 “Wait, Lestrade came by here? What time is it? How late did I sleep?” John glanced around the kitchen for a clock, wishing he hadn’t been in such a rush to see Sherlock that he’d left his watch sitting on the bedside table in his room.

 “Nearly noon.” Sherlock sounded completely unruffled as he stepped through to the kitchen to join John, deftly snapping the now-boiling kettle up and pouring water over the tea bag in John’s mug.

 “Jesus, I slept _that_ late?” John was startled; he’d known it was well after sunrise and moving on towards lunchtime by the slant of light in his room, but he hadn’t expected nearly half the day to be gone. “No wonder Lestrade was pounding at the door. I said we’d be by first thing in the morning!”

“As he reminded me when he showed up at the flat several hours ago. You’ve obviously not slept well in awhile, though, and I was going to let you get as much sleep as you needed. Have your tea and get dressed and we’ll head to NSY once you’re ready.”

 “I can get dressed while it steeps,” John said, embarrassed at himself for oversleeping so long and leaving Lestrade to wait. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”

 It was surprisingly easy to get dressed quickly when most of your clothes were still in boxes from moving. He simply plucked the first shirt, pants, trousers, and socks he happened upon in the open boxes and threw them on, stuffing his feet into the same shoes he’d had on the day before. His jacket was hanging in the entryway downstairs, opposite Mrs. Hudson’s flat; once he gulped his tea, they could be out the door and in a cab within seconds.

He’d gotten dressed so quickly that he was surprised when he stepped out of his bedroom and heard voices filtering down the hall. Voices, plural – someone was there with Sherlock. Surely Lestrade hadn’t come back? But then, it _was_ nearly lunchtime and John had promised to give a statement in the morning. He could hardly blame the DI for being impatient.

“So sorry,” John called, walking a little faster than normal as he made his way down the hall and into the kitchen. “I’ve only just got up and we were planning to leave as soon as I’d had my tea – oh. Hello.”

 John stopped in the kitchen, tapping his fingertips nervously against his thighs as he glanced between Sherlock and the imposing, well-dressed man standing opposite. This was most definitely _not_ DI Lestrade. It was the same man who Sherlock had spoken with the night before, his garrison commander. It took John a second to pull the name from his memory; the night had been full of new information, after all.

“Mycroft. How’re you?”

 “I am the same as I always am, Dr. John Watson. And, actually, I was only stopping in for a moment to speak with Sherlock. There are other places I must be… and, as I understand it, other places _you_ must be.”

 “Right.” John glanced between Sherlock and Mycroft, clearing his throat as he stepped forward to retrieve his cup of tea, carefully removing the tea bag from the still-steaming brew. “I’ll just… deal with this.”

“Mmm. Well, then. Dr. John Watson. Sherlock.” That was apparently what passed as a farewell to the Guardian Angel, because as John went towards the fridge to add milk to his tea, the tall, patriarchal man vanished.

 “What the hell was that?” John didn’t try to hide his annoyance at the sudden appearance and subsequent disappearance of Mycroft, and from the expression on Sherlock’s face, he shared John’s feelings on the matter.

“He apparently felt a reminder was in order. I don’t know if the ‘dangerous elements’ he mentioned yesterday evening have become a larger problem than they were or if he just wanted to needle me, but he stopped in to have me reiterate my promise to not chase impossible mysteries on pain of reassignment. It’s tiresome, him using the same threat over and over. He is too aware of my attachment and enjoys having something to hold over me to ensure my cooperation.” Sherlock spread his wings, the heavy feathers pressing against the countertop on one side and the tabletop on the other side. “Annoying. And pointless to continue reminding me to not chase other mysteries; I have plenty to occupy me in guiding you, John Watson.”  
  
John clenched his fists at his sides, struggling with the sudden desire to say something inappropriate like “You can’t leave” or “They can’t reassign you away from me; I won’t allow it.” He didn’t suppose his opinions had much weight with any Guardian Angel outside Sherlock… and perhaps not even with Sherlock. And he had never been in any professional partnership – and that was what this was, after all, wasn’t it? – in which a crush on someone made a single iota of difference in how things turned out.

 Sherlock shrugged his shoulders slightly, the dark Belstaff overcoat appearing on him midway through the move. “Shall we leave for New Scotland Yard now?”

 “Oh. Right.” John drank his tea in several large, hot swallows, depositing the mug into the sink as he followed after Sherlock who was halfway to the front door by the end of his sentence. John was beginning to suspect that this was to be his new normal, always rushing after the trailing sooty feathers of his unpredictable Angel.

 The next few days proved that hypothesis true. John found that Sherlock was in a habit of rushing from place to place, calling, “Come along, John” over his shoulder as he went. Even when John had to work, Sherlock always seemed to be leading the way into the taxi, into St. Bart’s, into the morgue.

 It was the morgue that was the sticking point, though. Every time John walked in, he expected to run into Dr. Erikson, his boss. It was true that he had only seen the man three times in his tenure working at St. Bart’s pathology lab, and once had been during his hiring interview, but it would only take one time of Dr. Erikson forbidding Sherlock entry into the pathology lab for it to become a problem. John only worked twice a week, but he had spent both his shifts tensed up and waiting to hear Dr. Erikson asking, “Who is this person?”

 John was unloading surgical instruments from the autoclave towards the end of his second weekly shift when he brought the problem up to Sherlock. John cleared his throat, drawing the Angel’s eyes away from his thoughtful study of Molly across the lab.

 “Yes, John?”

 “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

 “Mm. Does it have anything to do with Molly’s new boyfriend?”

 “Molly… what? No. Molly has a new boyfriend? When did you have a chance to chat with her?”

 Sherlock shoved the toes of his Oxfords against the linoleum floor, moving the rolling stool he’d been sitting on closer to John. “I haven’t. I’ve just been observing.” John opened his mouth to interrupt, knowing Sherlock was going to launch into a speech, but the other man beat him to the punch, gesturing subtly with one long finger at the lab assistant across the room. “She has the remnants of a new lipstick around the edges of her mouth; obviously she applied it this morning before leaving her flat, perhaps planning to meet with her new suitor on her way to work. It obviously wasn’t applied to impress anyone here since she hasn’t tried to touch it up since arriving. She’s also wearing a new jumper – you can see where the price tag was removed at the back of the neckline. It left a small hole that laundering would’ve eliminated. She bought it and wore it without first washing it, meaning she bought it _for_ someone, to impress them. She also keeps smiling, and unless there’s something funny in the postmortems she’s copying, she’s reacting to her own personal thoughts. It’s possible she’s just remembering a funny movie or book, but coupled with the new jumper and lipstick, it seems likely she’s thinking of her new love interest.”

 “I… well, I hadn’t caught any of that.” John said, removing the last instruments from the autoclave and shutting the door, lifting the tray of newly sterilized instruments from the countertop and turning to focus on the other man. “Sherlock, there’s something I want to talk with you about.”

 “Oh?”

 “You… being here. At my job.” John paused, wondering if Sherlock would be able to put it together. The Angel simply stared at John, pale eyes focused and curious. John cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “You can’t be here.”

 “But I _am_ here.” Sherlock’s expression was puzzled and John sighed, lowering his head for a moment and shutting his eyes as he tried to figure out the easiest way to say this.

 “I could lose my job, Sherlock. My meager income isn’t much to brag about, but it keeps us in the flat and buys food for me. I realize that’s not much a concern for you – eating, having somewhere to sleep at night – but for _me,_ those are absolute necessities. If I lose my job here, I won’t be able to afford either. And if you keep coming here with me, my boss is bound to see you and either fire me or forbid you from being here.”

 “Molly doesn’t mind me,” Sherlock said, brow furrowing.

 “Yes, but Molly isn’t my boss. Dr. Erikson isn’t in here often; he usually only shows up for big postmortem cases and leaves the smaller things to the lab techs. But, eventually he’s going to be here when we’re here, and it won’t end well.”

 Sherlock stared, his expression blank. There was a long pause as his eyes flicked back and forth across John’s face, taking in the other man’s expression. Finally, he spoke in a measured tone, mouth tight. “I see. You don’t want me here.”

 “Yes. No, wait, no, not… I don’t want to lose my job because you’re here. I don’t mind you being around, but if Dr. Erikson sees you, it’ll be a problem.” The words tumbled out quickly, John trying to reassure Sherlock that it wasn’t a case of not wanting Sherlock there but of needing to keep his job.

 “Oh.” Sherlock blinked, expression becoming more animated as the tension drained from his face. “That’s easily rectified.”

 Between one blink and the next, Sherlock was gone. John startled so badly that several instruments jumped off the tray in his hands, clattering against the floor. Molly glanced up from the papers on her desk, postmortems she’d been entering into the computer.

 “Oh. Has Sherlock gone?”

 John put the tray down on the counter, dragging his eyes away from the now-empty rolling stool to meet Molly’s curious gaze. He could see the faint remnants of lipstick at the edges of her lips now that it had been brought to his attention and he threw a quick glance back at the stool before focusing fully on Molly.

 “Yes. He… my shift is almost over. He went on ahead.”

“Is it that late?” Molly shoved a sleeve on her jumper up, looking at the watch on her wrist. “I should finish this up and get going, too, then. You can leave as soon as you finish with the instruments; I won’t keep you any later than necessary. Who wants to be here when there’s someone – I mean, if he _is_ … I, um. Anyway.” Molly flashed a quick smile, her thin face lighting up with the expression before she dropped her eyes back to the paperwork on her desk.

“All right. Ta.” John cleared the dropped instruments off the floor and put them in a tray to be re-sanitized and then quickly packaged the clean instruments for the next postmortem. He kept casting quick glances around the morgue as he worked, wondering if Sherlock was actually gone and, if so, _where_ he had gone. After Mycroft’s visit a few days earlier, John had been rather prickly at the idea of Sherlock being anywhere but right at his side. It was unlikely that Mycroft would reassign Sherlock for leaving John unguarded at work, after all, but why risk the commander’s ire? John needed to explain to Sherlock that he didn’t have to _leave_ ; he just needed to stay out of sight, if that were possible.

John raised his head from the tray of surgical instruments, seeking something to distract him from his increasingly frantic thoughts. The starkly lit morgue didn’t offer much in the way of distraction; most of the tasks that John could occupy himself with were menial labor and did very little to capture his attention. They could be done by rote, the steps mindless and repetitive after several months.

 Molly offered the only distraction, and John cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He hadn’t tried making small talk with anyone in months; it was a skill he had let fall by the wayside once he’d been invalided back into civilian life. But he still had at least ten more minutes of instrument sorting and bagging ahead of him, and he wanted to focus on something _other_ than the sudden disappearance of his Angel. Molly was all there was.

 “I uh… noticed you have on a new lipstick. Someone you’re trying to impress?”

 Molly glanced up at John’s words, her cheeks pinking as soon as he’d finished speaking. Her smile was shy but full of pride.

 “I’ve met someone… just in the last couple of days. We bumped into each other in the cafeteria when we reached for the same bag of crisps. He works upstairs, in IT. We’ve only had a few coffee dates in the cafeteria, but I think it’s… it’s going well, yeah. We met for breakfast in the cafeteria this morning.”

 “Lucky fellow,” John said, meaning it; Molly was a sweet person, as far as he could tell from sharing workspace over the last few months. He didn’t hear her talk to their coworkers much beyond work related things, and if Sherlock hadn’t noticed the signs of a cat on her, John would have just assumed she folded herself up and tucked herself into a desk drawer overnight and had no personal life at all.

 “Jim. His name is Jim.” Molly’s smile spread, her eyes going squinty as her joy overwhelmed her. “He’s pleasant. We’re… actually, we’re meeting tonight. Just a simple evening in, watching the telly and having some takeaway. But it’s been a few years since I had a date of any kind – oh.” Molly broke off, her smile fading a bit as she realized how much dismal personal information she was sharing.

 John gave a soft chuckle, shoving the last few sterilized surgical instruments into a bag and sealing it for the next PM. “I understand that. Not a lot of time for dating or socializing in an active war zone, and I haven’t been the life of the party since getting back to London.”

 “But you have Sherlock now.” Molly’s smile was tentative; she was obviously still embarrassed by how much personal information she’d divulged, but wasn’t ready to shut the conversation down yet.

 “Well, I wouldn’t say I ‘have’ him. He helps pass the time, yeah, but there’s nothing like having someone you’re seeing regularly and can enjoy building a relationship with.”

 “But… you mean, Sherlock isn’t…?” Molly trailed off, her eyes sweeping back and forth across John’s face. After a second, her eyes widened and her shoulders hunched as she realized how badly she’d misread the relationship. “Oh! You aren’t… he isn’t…”

 “We’re flatmates.” John said the words with a bit more force than necessary, his frustration at wishing they were more putting heat into his tone. “That’s it.”

 “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking – I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.” Molly turned her back to John, seemingly focusing on the papers spread on the desk in front of her. Her shoulders were still hunched protectively and John bit back a sigh; he hadn’t meant to snap at Molly. 

Still, he was done with the last task for the evening; he could escape now, perhaps find Sherlock again. Although God only knew where he’d gotten off to. John would start at the flat and work his way outward from there.

 John called his good-bye to Molly – her reply little more than a soft mumble – as he pushed out the heavy steel double doors and exited into the hallway outside the morgue. The doors had barely finished slowly hissing shut on their pneumatic hinges when Sherlock appeared at John’s elbow, causing him to jump.

 “ _Jesus,_ Sherlock!” John scolded, clapping one hand to his chest over his racing heart. “A little advance warning wouldn’t go amiss, you know. You shouldn’t just pop in right next to me!”

 Sherlock’s mouth gave a little twitch of consternation. “I’ll try to remember that in the future.”

 “Where the hell did you go?” John was still thrumming with adrenaline and his tone was a little harsher than he intended. Sherlock drew himself up, his expression looking briefly injured before going haughty.

 “I didn’t go anywhere. I was right beside you, watching over you while you worked. Since my Seeming of a physical body was likely to get you into trouble, I chose to drop the Seeming and continue my duty as Guardian Angel incorporeally. It seemed a fair compromise that would keep both of us satisfied.”

 John hesitated, his heart slowing bit by bit as he digested Sherlock’s words. “So… you didn’t leave? Okay… I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

 Sherlock did not look mollified. He tugged at the collar of his coat, turning it up slightly as he spun on the ball of one foot and began walking quickly down the dimly lit hallway, heading towards the exit he and John had used the last time he’d accompanied John to work. “Are you coming, John?”

 John cursed softly under his breath. He’d managed to hurt Sherlock’s feelings, or whatever passed for them in a Guardian Angel. He hurried after Sherlock, falling into step beside the taller man.

 “You startled me when you appeared. I reacted poorly.”

 “Yes, John, you’ve said.” Sherlock didn’t even slow, the soft tap of his shoes against the linoleum floor echoing around the two of them as they made their way into the better lit areas of St. Bart’s and towards the exit.

 “Okay. Then… we’re good?”

 “Naturally. I _am_ , however, having trouble figuring out how to get you back on your path. These last few days have been frustrating for me; I can see you’re no longer at risk of premature death, but all the pathways and possibilities I see before you now lead to a long but uneventful life.”

 John hesitated, glancing up at Sherlock’s profile, taking in the way the buzzing fluorescents overhead threw the shadow of his cheekbone so far down the side of his face. It was truly unfair that he was stuck with this gorgeous creature beside him and no way of moving beyond admiration from a distance. “An uneventful life doesn’t sound bad,” John ventured.

 “No, but it’s hardly the destiny you were meant to fulfill. ‘Uneventful’ also means that you don’t save the lives you’re meant to save.”

 “Ah. Right.” They walked in silence broken only by the soft tapping of their soles against the floor until they arrived at one of the exits from the hospital, Sherlock shoving the door open and pulling his wings close as he stepped through, hesitating for just a moment with his long, gloved fingers resting at the edge of the door until John had scooted through after him. Together, they stepped onto the pavement in the gathering dusk, John at Sherlock’s side. A breeze picked up, swirling the cool evening air around them, and John gave a slight shiver. He had left his coat at home that morning, mistakenly believing that the heavy jumper over his button-up would be sufficient protection; he hadn’t expected wind that evening. Sherlock missed nothing; at John’s shiver, the Angel spread one wing towards the shorter man.

 The touch of almost incorporeal feathers sent a whole new kind of shiver through John’s body. He could feel the heat trapped within the layered feathers spreading over him, the warmth from Sherlock’s body pressing against him as the wing sheltered him from the next breeze.

 ‘ _God_ ,’ he thought, throwing one quick glance up at the Angel’s angular and unreadable face. ‘ _How did I get so lucky? I’m almost starting to hope he_ never _figures out how to get me back on whatever path I’m supposed to be on. He’d have to stay then, wouldn’t he? Would I be able to keep him forever if I just had an uneventful life from here on out?’_

“John?” It was obvious from Sherlock’s tone that John had missed some query while he’d been lost in his own thoughts and he cleared his throat quickly, stepping away from the taller Angel and out of the sheltering warmth of the spread wing. Sherlock slowly folded the dark wing close to his own body once more, watching John rub his palms together briskly as he tried to pretend everything was absolutely normal and that he hadn’t been thinking of keeping the Angel like an interesting stone found on a beach and arranged on a shelf to be admired at regular intervals.

 “Yeah?” John kept his tone light, stuffing his hands into his armpits to warm them. It had definitely been more comfortable under Sherlock’s wing, but it had felt somehow too intimate. God, he had it bad. He needed to find someone who might agree to go out on a date with him, something to help get his mind clear.

 “I had asked if you wanted to stop somewhere to get a meal for yourself or if you planned to call something in once we were back to the flat?”

 “Oh. Either. I’m not terribly hungry just now,” John lied, still speaking in an artificially bright tone. His stomach gave a low grumble and Sherlock raised his brows slightly.

“Then let’s hail a cab. It’s obvious even to the least observant person that you’re uncomfortable in the cooler evening air.” Sherlock stepped close to the kerb, raising one arm to wave in a passing taxi cab, muttering just loud enough that John could catch the words, “You should have stayed under my wing; it’s part of my duty to see to your comfort.”

 ‘All _my comforts?’_ John wondered and squashed the thought down roughly. This was getting ridiculous; he hadn’t had a crush this intense since primary school. He would have thought himself too mature for this level of blind adoration and single-minded obsession, and yet. It was only that Sherlock was unobtainable, John figured. That had to be it.

 The taxi stopped beside Sherlock and John stepped over to slide into the backseat next to his Guardian Angel, very aware of the warmth coming off Sherlock’s skin less than a metre away. Would his Angel grant him the privacy of a date with some other person, he wondered, or would Sherlock follow him even there? Maybe there was no way to escape this obsession but for Sherlock to return to an incorporeal guardian, always watching John but always unseen by John.

 John’s eyes slid over to Sherlock again, drinking in the dark curls, the sharp angles of his face, the lean neck, and the ramrod straight posture. John’s heart stuttered with longing and he drew his eyes back to his own window with difficulty, staring out of it but not seeing the passing London streets. He did not want Sherlock to become incorporeal again. He didn’t want Sherlock to leave.

 ‘ _So, I just won’t complete whatever destiny they want me to complete. I’ll resist whatever it is they need me to do. I don’t care if it’s selfish; I think I deserve to be selfish after the life I’ve had up to this point. And, yes, it’ll be completely one-sided, but it’s a damn sight better than helping hundreds of nameless somebodies but never seeing Sherlock again.’_ John smiled humorlessly, decision made. He wasn’t giving up his Angel, no matter what happened.

 


End file.
